Episode Five: Farscape Gambits
by Errationatus2
Summary: Crichton and his crew plan to stop Scorpius - if they can. Pirates, derring-do, maybe even a romance or two.
1. Chapter 1

**FARSCAPE**

**Previously, on **_**Farscape**_**:**

_On their way in an attempt to discover the whereabouts of Scorpius and the extent of his wormhole experiments, Crichton has met a woman from the past, Shiv had discovered disturbing news about herself and her makers, and Haxer and Chak'sa had reached a new phase in their relationship, after Crichton had "paid" to have Haxer's brain repaired. Inexplicably, Ogg'M'nendi is attacked and destroyed by Peacekeepers, and Miriya Breannados taken into custody…_

_

* * *

_

**AND NOW, ON FARSCAPE: **_**FREEBOOTER**_**:**

**GAMBITS**

"_For he who lives more lives than one, more deaths than one must die._

_- Oscar Wilde, _The Ballad of Reading Gaol

**PRAYADON-UVEER WAS JUST ANOTHER PORT IN ANOTHER SYSTEM THAT WENT NOWHERE.**

The planet below had a population of around one hundred thousand, none indigenous. A failed colony of the long-past-its-prime Uten Sovereignty, the port, the _only_ port in the system was humble, but not seedy. The population were xenophobes, and only allowed the port because it was one of their few sources of income. No Uten set foot on it, but that was simply because they contracted to the next system over for security – the Wj'k, who were even bigger xenophobes that the Uten, and far more vicious. As security, they were perfect. They played no favorites whatsoever. As long as there was no trouble, neither the Uten nor the Wj'k roused themselves.

Haxer was casually 'surfing' - as Crichton called it - laughing quietly to himself at the pitiful state of their networks, watching warily for his quarry. Visitors were not abundant here, for obvious reasons, and for some, that was the perfect reason to pass through this particular port. Haxer was slightly disgruntled, however, because it was _his_ data that led him to be sitting in an out of the way booth in a near-empty tavern, just off the port's only shopping area, a wraparound promenade that boasted few shops worth visiting. They had uncovered it on their last depot raid – the third in the monen they'd been searching for some lead to Miriya's current whereabouts, and Crichton had looked over the data, grinned and then told Haxer to grab some gear and one of the _Vengeance's_ pods. Even now, the Vigilante sat just outside the system in full stealth, waiting for him to complete his mission.

Frell. Hax didn't like 'missions'. He was the Overseer of Data. He collated and sifted and made sense of the arcane mysteries of virtual spaces. He was neither bounty hunter, babysitter nor a truant officer. He wasn't helpless, even though he disliked guns. He'd managed, cycles ago, to work out what his instructors in the Peacekeepers called "body memory" – cycles of hard, intensive training instilled their own patterns on his muscles and reflexes, making them 'remember' combat moves even when his mind didn't – after the scrambling of his mind by Scorpius, Haxer had sought out anyone who could help him remember and had encountered a trainer named Katoya, who had brought out those remembered responses – and had taught him a few new disciplines as well.

The one nice thing about being manic, Hax had always thought, was that it was easy to get obsessed, and obsessed with it he'd become. While it appeared at times that he was nothing more than some flighty tech, Hax's body was a lethal weapon – as clichéd as it sounded – unto itself. It also didn't hurt that Chak'sa had also taught him a few moves over the cycles.

He ran over in his head the description of his target: seventy-one denches, give-or-take, slim yet strong, dark hair, straight features, an intricate tattoo that started by her left ear and traveled down her jawline – in blue. She would be armed, but not heavily. She was 34 cycles old and according to his data "spoiled rotten". She may or may not have a companion.

Didn't matter. He had only one order. Return with this person to the _Vengeance_. Any companion, according to Crichton, was to be left behind. How he did it was up to him as long as she arrived alive alone and relatively undamaged. He scanned the few patrons in the tavern. She'd be in a long blue coat, trimmed with gold, with red trousers and thigh-high black boots.

So… she shouldn't be _too_ hard to spot. There was something else that his follow-up data had mentioned, but it slipped his mind at the moment. He was certain he'd remember when necessary.

After about an arn, and his attention threatening to wander dangerously, Haxer finally spotted her, passing by the tavern entrance in a brisk walk, followed closely by a young man just about her age, a little taller. Haxer was on his feet and out the door before they'd managed two full motras down the promenade, casually trailing after, and when they stopped, he stopped, found something interesting in a window or at an occasional link-in terminal, at which each he did a quick bit of programming with a portable data link he always carried – one of his own design, of course. One never knew when one could use an aptly-timed distraction.

As fortune smiled, both the young woman and her companion were heading out to the docking ring – where they either had a ship waiting or sought to hire or steal one.

Timing it with rather uncanny precision, Haxer intersected the couple just as they stepped onto the docking ring, only about five berths up from the _Vengeance's_ pod. He wondered briefly why it should be called a _pod_, because it wasn't technically a 'pod' but an auxiliary fighter craft, fully capable of short-period Hetch speeds and both defensive and offensive capabilities. It was basically a Mark V Prowler chassis with Marauder avionics and weapons.

Nevermind.

He stepped up to her and had his hand on her back before she even knew he was there. He smiled, and she managed a squeak before she froze at the feel of his hand at her back, momentarily frightened that it might have been a gun.

"Mar'lian H'reev, I assume?" He asked her. The young man started and began to back away, but Haxer found one of Mar'lian's spinal nerve nexus' and jabbed two fingers on either side of her spine. She stiffened, completely unable to resist the impulse, looked stricken. The boy looked startled and froze himself.

"I can cripple her," he told the kid. "Think about it."

"What do you want?" The kid asked, and Hax could see his mind flipping over, trying to decide.

"Just her." Haxer narrowed his eyes and jabbed slightly harder, eliciting another startled squeak. It didn't actually hurt, but it felt like it _could_ and quite a bit at that.

"Are you a bounty hunter?" She managed, and Haxer smiled at her.

"Nope. Well, sort of, but not exactly." He thought another microt. "No. Let's go."

"But…" the kid said, and Haxer gave him a sharp look.

"You stay here – or you'll have to carry her everywhere forever." He poked again. "Move."

Just as he said it, that nagging bit of forgotten data came back to him – just as a shout from behind them echoes through the metal hallway. Right. _Real_ bounty hunters were _also_ supposed to be looking for her.

"We are going to _run._" He hissed at her, and as an afterthought, reached into his pocket and tossed the kid a small computer wafer. "Here, it's a keycoder. Go steal a ship and get the frell out of here!"

A shot suddenly sparked between them and a shouted "Hey!" followed and Haxer and his prize ran like Hezmana for the pod. It was slightly awkward, with Hax trying to both hold her arm and keep his fingers on the spinal nexus and try not to trip her, but they made it, and Haxer shoved her through the remote-opened door, skidded to a stop. With a savage grin, he pulled out his data-link and hit three keys – thus plunging the entire station into darkness – and for good measure, cut off the gravity. He was inside the pod before he felt its effects however.

A quick snap of a pair of cuffs to a wrist and a chair kept Mar'lian in place and he quickly uncoupled the pod and backed it out of the berth. Mar'lian was chattering, outraged at her captivity, all the way.

Hax managed to get to the halfway point between the _Vengeance_ and the station when his tracking array brought him the unwelcome news that the bounty hunters had ships of their own and were in a fast pursuit. He managed a sharp, "_Shut the frell up_!" at the still-complaining girl and did his best to put them out of range of any weapons fire – he was doing all right until a lucky shot hit his Hammonside propulser and put the pod into a sharp spin, and it was all he could do to pull them out of it and not throw up from the vertigo. He checked readings as shots thudded off the hull of the pod and realized that he wasn't going anywhere in a hurry with one propulser.

He needn't have bothered, however.

A huge dark presence emblazoned with a grinning skull and crossbones suddenly registered on his sensors – and the hunters' too. They needed no other encouragement to turn tail, but the _Vengeance_ sent a few shots after them anyway. Haxer sucked in a breath and breathed a sigh of relief – and realized that Mar'lian _was still complaining_. Hax counted to twenty in his head before rising, walking past her and retrieving a medkit from the wall locker behind her. He gave himself an analgesic for his headache, casually reached back and shot Mar'lian up with a fast-acting Peacekeeper-grade sedative. She yelled at him in further indignation, which 20 microts later became a slurred curse against his parentage and any future offspring, and then a snore like a ripping sail split the air.

"Charming." Haxer sighed, as he felt the _Vengeance's_ grapples hit home.

* * *

"**That her?"** Crichton asked, looking down on their guest. A loud snore made him wince.

"Yeah. She only shut up a hundred microts ago." Haxer tossed a smile at Cha, and sighed again. "She was worth this, right?"

Crichton leaned down, unfastened the cuff and hoisted the snoring girl over his shoulder, stepped around Hax, stopped, raised the eyebrow over his good eye.

"We'll find out, won't we?"

"Why is it," Haxer told Crichton's back and the dark-haired head hanging thereon, "that none of these things are _ever_ easy?"

* * *

**TWO THOUSAND AND TWO CYCLES AGO, IT WAS SENT INTO SPACE.**

It was a vessel of truly gigantic proportions, resembling several colossal globes all partially merged with one another. Launched by the He'leel'm, it was called the _Far Star _and it had been meant to ferry a section of their race to a far distant world, away from the looming cataclysm that waited to befall the homeworld – or so the story went. For three hundred cycles it plodded through trackless void… only to be overtaken long before it arrived at its destination by He'leel'm ships equipped with new stardrives and Hetch-like technology.

Votes were taken, plebiscites held. He'leel'm society had changed rather radically in the intervening centuries the two groups had been separated, and society and cultures were no longer compatible. The huge, now obsolete ship was abandoned and sold to the V'rai'denu, who had no advanced space-faring technology at all.

For another two hundred and fifty cycles, while it orbited the V'rai'denu homeworld, they tinkered with it and modified it and learned everything they could. Using the computer systems, they enveloped their world in artificial intelligences that greatly expanded their knowledge of the universe, advanced them medically, socially, and scientifically. The back-engineered fusion engines powered their cultures, and the energy cyclers and technology enabled their entire world to be connected. They also used all of the same technology for weapons, and exactly 275 cycles after they'd purchased the _Far Star_, the V'rai'denu wiped themselves out in a patriotic frenzy of nuclear fusion-fueled madness.

For two hundred cycles more it orbited empty over a cinder and the computer on the ship, sophisticated and upgraded AI that had counted all the atoms in the system's star – twice – ticked over and began to question why the ship remained over the dead world below. Much of the ship had been dormant, and the AI had to work very long and hard to get it all up and running – several eternities for the computer, but only another twenty cycles was all it needed to activate all that needed to be activated and out of V'rai'denu space. Once in interstellar space, the computer detected a faint signal on the edge of its sensors, and curious, it turned the great bulk of the _Far Star_ toward that plaintive cry in the dark.

For another one hundred and fifty cycles the _Far Star_ made its way across the void, the signal growing ever stronger. Finally in comm range, the AI called this small voice it had chased for so long… only to be promptly seized and boarded by a Havasti Clan (_long before the race became Slavers_) - the Mor'corads, a poor clan that, until the massive vessel arrived, were on the verge of starvation. They couldn't believe their luck, and for the next fifty cycles, the Mor'corads changed their personal destinies, becoming a respected power within the other Clans, leading them all down the path that would eventually make them reviled Slavers - all on the basis of their ownership of the _Far Star._ The computer that had diligently followed a signal it would never uncover they thoughtlessly purged and replaced.

Eventually jealousy destroyed the Mor'corads, and the ship was sent careening into space by the vengeful – and mad – last member of the Clan. Inert, silent, and empty – save for the desiccated corpse of the last Mor'corad, of course - the _Far Star_ spent another four hundred and ten cycles drifting between stars, and it might never have been found had it not intersected the gravity of a small star, was dragged into a system and crashed on a small planet wracked by religious war and hatred. As fate would have it, the _Far Star_ crashed into the capital of the most fundamentalist of the planet's nation-states, and was taken as a sign that war over religion was wrong – especially if the gods reacted _this_ way to it. Eventually, after moldering for another one hundred fifty cycles in the crater that was once a city, one brave soul wound up the courage to enter the "Great Fallen Mountain" and discovered it for what it really was – and just like that, revolutionized both his people and his planet. For his part, he was ripped to shreds by the fanatics who thought his entrance of the mountain 'blasphemy', but enough people realized the potential in the ship. It was another two hundred cycles before the _Far Star_ saw space again, dragged up by ships and parked in orbit to be a museum to their progress.

There it orbited for another three hundred cycles, finally back to noble work, inspiring generation after generation, until it was decided by the powers-that-were that the old ship was, in fact, _far_ too old, and needed to be upgraded if it were to remain an inspiration. For a twenty cycles more, they cleaned and polished and restored, and the _Far Star_, that name long-lost and forgotten by all save the ship itself, was reborn in what they thought was its original splendor.

Then the Drevmok came, and the planet and species were consumed and wiped from space and memory, and once again, the ancient _Far Star_ was left masterless and quiet.

Fifty-two cycles ago, it was discovered by a scout faction of the Ashkelon Warlords, the Warlord Oot'ray'em Bek'reine to be precise, and taken back to his domain for study. Refitted with modern engines and computer systems, all the best amenities, the _Far Star_ became the _Red Palace_, the latest in a great many names. For twenty cycles, it served Bek'reine well as home and showpiece, until he foolishly lost it in an ill-advised game of Tadek to the "White Fist" Captain of the Dar'shanne Pirates, Ovid Marlane Dar'shanne, who turned it into a flying fortress he used to plunder from at will.

In an odd twist, although totally unaware, it turned out that Dar'shanne was descended – distantly - from the long-since extinct He'leel'm, and he, also completely unknowingly, renamed the ship _To The Farthest Star. _

It was to one of the many, many docking ports on the _Farthest Star _that the Stealth Vigilante called _Vengeance _latched herself, here, two thousand and two cycles after the great vessel's creation.

Fate, it should be noted - while capricious - is not very original.

* * *

**Crichton stepped out of the hatchway** that ended the docking tube from the _Vengeance_ to the _Farthest Star._ Flanked by Shiv and Chak'sa, heavily armed, he looked around the bay. Chak'sa took up a position directly in front of the hatchway, longstaff in hand. As she did, across the way, a door sliced open and four pirates stepped through, all likewise-armed and wary-eyed. They looked longest at Shiv and Chak'sa and one came up, looked pointedly at Crichton.

"If'n you want to see Captain," he said, and Crichton doubted he could identify the guy's species, decided 'mongrel' was the most apt – and charitable - label for the guy. "She stay." He jabbed a short, fat, rather furry finger at Shiv.

"Unlikely." Crichton told him in no uncertain tone. He indicated Shiv and Chak'sa with slight nods.

"_This _is Shivi'na Na'Carahad. She guards me. _That_ is Chak'sa Bavmorda. She guards my ship."

The guy blinked. Yeah, those were known names, all right. Crichton jabbed a thumb at Shiv.

"She insists on coming with me. Go ahead - y_ou_ tell her 'no'." Shiv was gazing steadily at the guy as he slowly turned it over in his head. The guy finally muttered "Follow me," and led them deeper into the ship.

"_Frell."_ Haxer had said as they had pulled up to the ship, and he'd run a quick scan. _"Scan says there's almost thirty thousand people on that thing." _A pause._ "Dar'shanne's not even using a full third of that ship for personnel, either. He's gutted a lot of the rear sections and turned them into hangers and cargo bays. There's a couple of sensor-opaque sections, so he's probably hiding some serious ordinance in 'em." _Another pause, longer. _"Surveillance everywhere over there. Guy's paranoid."_

_And dangerous as hell,_ Crichton thought, watching the decks drop by. He was only moderately assured by the presence of Shiv behind him. They were led on a winding course through the ship, and Crichton knew that was completely deliberate, a way to confuse his sense of direction, but it didn't work. Even if Crichton couldn't have remembered the way, Shiv most definitely would have, and that was more than enough.

Eventually, they arrived in Dar'shanne's 'audience chamber', and into the presence of the man himself. Ovid Marlane Dar'shanne was a massive bear of a man.

He was no taller than Crichton, but Dar'shanne easily had fifty kilos on him, and it was all solid. He reminded Crichton of the pirates of old - loud, colorful, blustery and showy. Dar'shanne wore Peacekeeper-style leathers, but his were red where Crichton's were black. Usually strapped across his back were two pulse rifles he wielded like pistols. He had green snake eyes, a sharp spearpoint of a nose and a wide smile, back teeth sharp. His chocolate hair was long and he had a dark beard that looked like mutton chops, only his were a half-a-motra longer and tied together under his chin. He was a sometimes partner, sometimes lover and longtime enemy of Reihna Karadandidos and it was from his time with her that Crichton knew this self-styled "Pirate Lord".

He was not alone, of course, surrounded by his 'women', hangers-on, fellow pirates, flunkies and sycophants, all seated at an enormous feasting table. Dar'shanne was sprawled in a large, throne-like chair, every inch a 'Pirate Lord'. Behind him on a stand was his flag – a large white fist on blood-red fabric. Crichton just smiled to himself. Any one of these people could stick Dar'shanne when he least expected it – too many people around, too many for Crichton's liking. Fortunately, Shiv's cold orange eyes kept many at bay.

"Still alive, as I told you, Shallvo!" Dar'shanne bellowed when he saw him. "As you can plainly see, it is _indeed_ my old friend Crichton!" Crichton and Shiv stopped just short of the _Farthest Star's _Captain. Shallvo, his 'advisor' and First Mate, stood behind him, much like Shiv did with Crichton, only dangerous with his tongue, not blades.

"As you say, Captain. It certainly _appears_ to be the illustrious Crichton."

"Appears? I was with him and Reihna for the War of Ten at Paradon! I know him to see him! Missing an eye? _Bah_ – 'tis nothing! Am I a different one for having cyber parts? Pay up!"

With an unctuous smile and cold eyes, Shallvo paid whatever it was they had wagered and backed off.

"What was that all about?" Crichton asked him.

"He says you're an _imposter_, old friend – there's some frellax rumor abounding that says the real Crichton went home – wherever the frell that is - and you're some frakzy imitator using his name!" Dar'shanne looked him over closely anyway, even as his voice dismissed the possibility.

"Well, maybe he's right," Crichton sent him a flat smile, and changed the subject. "Need something."

Dar'shanne got himself comfortable, eyed the Human before him.

"Do you now?" Crichton casually draped a hand over a butt of a pistol.

"Uh-huh. I know you've got – at least - three K'shrohn Orbital Impactors that you stole from Jen'l'Darad's _Ravishing Sun _Ammo Depot." Another flat smile. "I want one."

Dar'shanne and everyone in earshot burst into laughter.

"Just like that?" The big pirate sputtered. "I should just hand one over?" He coughed, good mood dissipating. "You know what they are?"

"Obviously – the use of one contravenes every military test-ban treaty for thirty systems. Don't care. Give me one."

Dar'shanne _completely_ lost his sense of humor at Crichton's tone. Shocked faces were registering here and there at his impudence.

"_Give_ you one, eh?" Dar'shanne rumbled, whatever good mood he had been in long-gone. "Watch your tone. I'll not be ordered by the likes of you - no matter what you've done in the past. I'm no charity."

"I'm no beggar." Crichton pointed at a monitor to Dar'shanne's left, slapped his comm. "_Hax_."

The monitor suddenly sprang to life, displaying a sleeping woman, obviously bound.

"Mar'lian! How…?" It also suddenly occurred to him – practical pirate that he was – that Crichton had managed to infiltrate his systems. He decided to have a round of punishments, later - until he found out why. Then he turned his full attention back to the woman on the screen – she was his biggest weakness, and he knew it. She'd run away – again – three solar days previously, and he'd been scouring the surrounding systems for her.

"I went looking. Fortunately, I have better people than you do." Crichton shrugged. "You want her back?"

"Mar'lian H'reev is not worth a KOI." Shallvo spoke up from behind the _Star's_ Captain, who didn't like being spoken for – a quick backhand dropped Shallvo to the floor, from whence he glared murder at his Captain – although not blatantly, mind you.

"_I_ decide what's worth what!" He bellowed, then quieted, staring at the woman on the monitor. Crichton waited calmly, glancing back at Shiv. She was drawing a lot of interested looks, but no one was brave enough to approach her.

"What did you want the KOI for?" He asked quietly. "A reward? Stupid."

"No reward. Why I want it is my own damn business, so cut the crap and hand it over." Crichton smirked at him to sharp looks and quickly-turned heads. Dar'shanne stared at him in disbelief and then suddenly roared with laughter. He reached out and grasped Shallvo's arm, pulled him to his feet.

"Do you still doubt _this_ is John Crichton? Who else has the mivonks to both try to command _me_ on my own ship - and make such demands?" He slapped Shallvo on the back, the First Mate looking at Crichton with renewed interest, the backhand forgotten.

"Come, Crichton," Dar'shanne said expansively, rising. "Walk with me." Shiv took a step, but Crichton gave her a short shake of the head. She stayed where she was. He strolled off with Dar'shanne and Shallvo looked at Shiv.

"What he asks for is unlikely," Shallvo told her, certain. "Still, who knows what he may have to trade? One female may not be enough. _You_ may be included in the price." He leered at her, knowing his Captain's penchant for exotic females.

Shiv turned her fire-gaze at him, inquired coldly in her quicksilver voice, "Will you wager your life on it?"

Shallvo paled and stepped back.

* * *

**"Where did you find her?"** Dar'shanne asked him.

"Prayadon-Uveer. Look, do you want her back or don't you?" Crichton sighed. "I don't have time for this dren."

"You've done me great service, Crichton," Dar'shanne told him. "Both in the past and even recently, when you destroyed Morning's Bounty." Dar'shanne seemed to fade out for a moment. "My brother died there." He said to himself. Crichton refrained from telling him it had absolutely nothing to do with him. "But I can't just give up a KOI. They're too dangerous in the wrong hands."

"_My_ hands are the wrong hands? I beg to differ. Your prestige won't suffer if you have one, three, or fifty of them. One less isn't going to hurt your reputation." He smirked. "I just need a big enough stick." Dar'shanne squinted at him, unfamiliar with the reference, but thinking he'd gotten the gist…

"You have a predilection for destruction, my friend. Tell me why you want it."

"No. Look, this isn't brain surgery, you _owe_ me. Simple. Yes or no?"

"They have someone of yours." Dar'shanne thought he'd hit on it. "That the truth, yes."

Crichton just shrugged. He had a larger agenda. Much larger. Still and all, Dar'shanne would understand it being used in the pursuit of a female – his own biggest weakness.

It was one Crichton was grateful he no longer possessed.

_Frell it, use what works._

"She's not mine." Dar'shanne frowned a mighty frown. "It's Miriya Breannados."

"_What? _ Granted, she's a beauty true, a spanner genius, but you need a KOI for _her?_ Why her?" Crichton scratched the side of his nose.

Instead of answering directly, Crichton simply told him, "Peacekeepers destroyed Tyvon and wiped out _all_ the shops at Ogg'M'nendi too.", skipping the obvious. Dar'shanne scratched his balding head.

"That makes no sense. The place is rounded with those damnable Hounds of theirs – cracking it not so easy."

"Not a one fired. They walked in and helped themselves."

"Betrayal." A nod. "All dead but her?" Another nod. Dar'shanne turned. "Curious."

"Very, but not without precedent."

"Who's the she?" He asked, clearly meaning Shiv. His eyes glittered as they looked back on her lissome figure.

"Don't you ever get enough?" Crichton glanced back at his Thantados companion, poised and calm, awaiting him. She was exotically attractive, with all the feminine perfection a deliberately-designed female could possess - but he knew better. It'd be like trying to make love to a razor blade. "A man's reach should never exceed his grasp."

Dar'shanne looked at him contemplatively for all of a microt, puffed out a breath. "Dangerous, eh?"

"She could kill you five times before you hit the floor."

Dar'shanne paused for another half-dozen microts, sniffed, nodded, more to himself.

"You have a talent for talent, lad." A small sigh. "Give me my wife. For the KOI, I also throw in any debts I owe you from yore. _All_ of 'em." Crichton didn't give a dren, as long as he got the KOI.

"Done." He'd have Hax strap Dar'shanne's recalcitrant wife to a cargo sled for delivery. "I want the KOI delivered by automata."

"Not a very trusting sort, are you?" Dar'shanne asked, amused, but nodded. "You'll have it in a half-arn."

"Then you have your wife in a half-arn." He smiled a cold smile. "A piece of advice."

"Advice now?" Crichton suddenly jabbed him sharply. Dar'shanne looked down, saw a pulse pistol jammed against his side. He opened his mouth to protest, but Crichton cut him off.

"You're too gregarious, and _you're_ too trusting. That wife of yours will kill you to get away the next time. Change your ways or cut her loose. You let me this close fully armed. _Stupid._ You'll push Shallvo too far one day too." The pistol vanished. "Think about it."

Crichton split off from a suddenly-thoughtful Dar'shanne, walked to Shiv, stopped for only two heartbeats and moved on. She looked after him and two-dozen pirates felt a twinge of envy, then she followed.

Dar'shanne called to him as he went.

"Come now, Crichton - how _will_ you use the KOI?"

"None of your frelling business. Just remember what I said."

Dar'shanne waved him off, but Crichton paused, looked back.

"Oh, by the way – if you're quick, you can probably loot the crap out of what's left of Ogg'M'nendi – but you'd better do it before the Zenetians beat you to it."

Crichton smiled a tight smile as he left the room.

The important stuff he'd already found.

* * *

**SHE WAS MARCHED SMARTLY IN AND INVITED CORDIALLY TO SIT.**

She'd awakened an arn earlier, face smarting from the blow to it, body aching from the kicks she'd received, head aching, a dark bruise marring her cheek. The Peacekeeper Captain who had ordered the strike on Ogg'M'nendi looked her over and liked what he saw. She, however, was less than amused.

"Nice waste of firepower," she'd said without preamble, cutting him off. "All for an out-of-the-way mod shop."

He inclined his head at her as she sat.

"'Out-of-the-way' implies something other than what it actually was – one of the most notorious rings of stolen ships and parts in fifty systems." His voice was solid, sharp and precise, and Miriya immediately disliked him.

"Miriya Breannados, sir," a rather scrawny aide said from behind him. The man looked like one of the few legacy trees left on Tyvon, dark and skeletal, his face all sharp angles and shadows. The Captain was his complete opposite, stocky, thick-legged and barrel-chested, a light-haired tank who had the manners of a cultivated man and a ruthless streak a metra wide.

"Alias?" He asked his aide.

"Very likely." Miriya just smiled a tight smile and shrugged.

"Breannados," the Captain said, rising and pacing halfway around his desk. "I am Captain Velad Tharn. I'm sure I don't have to tell you how this is to proceed."

Miriya crossed her arms, legs and shook her red head.

"Of course not. You'll strut and posture and that collection of themmer rods in a uniform behind you will puff and huff and attempt to menace me and in the end you'll just threaten me with transfer to some P90-class prison or some Veridahn torture hole, after I spend my time comfortably telling you both to go frell yourselves."

Tharn smiled a flat smile at her, leaned casually on his desk.

"A fair assumption to make," he told her, almost genially. "Unfortunately," he suddenly snapped forward, "Not true, in this case." A large fist came out of nowhere to connect with her jaw and send her up over the back of her chair and hard to the floor. There was a burst of dark red in her eyes as his fist connected and sparks followed when she bounced on the deck. She'd only managed an inarticulate exclamation of surprise, and lay there dazed until the soldier who had ushered her in hoisted her roughly to her feet and dropped her hard into the chair. The hand that had hit her grasped her chin and forced her still-dazed head up.

"_That_ was for your disrespect of Lieutenant Hazeel and myself." Miriya fought the urge not to retch. It felt as if her jaw had been detached from her skull. "Any further insolence in which you'd like to indulge?"

Miriya gingerly shook her head in the negative, clutched her jaw. Still in one piece, in the right place, thankfully. She'd realized then that Tharn had actually _pulled_ his punch.

"Why?" She managed, the one word sending severe pain lancing through her face. She could already feel the area of impact beginning to swell.

"Why what?"

"Me? My shop?" She asked painfully.

"Oh, that." Tharn chuckled, sat himself back down. Hazeel handed him a pad he looked over, passed back with a slight nod.

"Ogg'M'nendi was simply a _training exercise_, Breannados. To give my platoons something to do. Inactivity makes them lazy. What better way to destroy an illegal operation that steals and turns our ships over to pirates?" He smirked at her. "As to you… well, you're of no consequence. In two arns, for whatever reason, a detachment of Special Services Commandoes will be coming here to retrieve you. After that… who can say?"

Miriya shuddered involuntarily, felt a cold ball drop into an equally cold pit in her stomach. Special Services meant only one thing: Scorpius. Scorpius meant the Aurora Chair. Anything or anyone that came into contact with John Crichton was fodder for Scorpius.

"In the meantime," he told her, looking her over with a gaze she knew far too well. "Your stay _can_ be pleasant, if you choose."

The sheer irony of it, the ridiculousness of the entire situation struck her at his leer and she unthinkingly snorted in derision – a lapse that got her cursed roundly, slapped very hard – across the opposite side of her face, rattling her teeth and bringing tears to her eyes - carried brusquely away and thrown into a small cell that was just on the verge of being _just_ too hot. Her prospects had gone from slim to zero.

The Aurora Chair was something she knew she could _not_ be made subject to – a desperation was growing in her almost to the point of fear. She did not understand why, but she couldn't fight it. _Holy frelling frell._

Miriya curled up in a ball, cursed the name of John Crichton and tried unsuccessfully not to be terrified.

* * *

**THADON NO'HALLADAN WATCHED THE PROCESSION GO BY, SMILED TO HIMSELF.**

The "Dominance of The Enlightened", as the plump little tyrant below - surrounded by armed guards and automated defences – called itself, squat and waved at people whose joy at his presence was more in response to the weapons that played over their heads than actual enthusiasm.

It was interesting, Thadon noted to himself, that the Dominance's guard was made primarily up by Sebaceans – Peacekeepers, naturally. He was apparently so sure of their skill, the "Dominance" hadn't even bothered with a canopied transport. Just a grav-sled festooned with plump pillows and plump, hollow-faced females.

Such a pity.

He expertly positioned himself on a blindspot–ledge of a building just ahead of the procession, took one deep breath and expelled it slowly. Thadon had only one real mission, but even engineered-expert assassins needed to eat, provision and maintain transport. The pay-off from this particular assassination should keep him in the above for some time – at least long enough, he hoped, to find Shivi'na again.

It didn't matter if the compulsion – the desire for her – had been engineered into him, that he both longed for and lusted after her almost to the point of an actual physical pain, none of that mattered. Even if he hadn't, he would _still_ want her, he was sure of it. Something unattached to his 'programming' had been fired up when he'd first met her at the Terminus, something he wanted to explore further. _If_ he could convince _her_ to allow herself to explore it herself.

He'd been tracking her for some time, and had lost her trail shortly before she'd joined Karadandidos' pirate band, but, thanks to the notoriety of her latest 'captain', she was proving rather easier to follow. Yet, ships needed heavy water and fuel for both Hetch-drives and fusion impellers, and none of those things were free.

Thadon watched the procession approach, smiled slightly to himself - the fat little "Dominance" down there had a particular vice that included young females – the younger the better – and there were secret graveyards all around the capital where he had them interred afterward. For ten cycles this planet had groaned under his perversity and tyranny – supposedly blessed by "the gods", - and the people had finally had enough of both the 'gods" and their supposedly-appointed rulers. Through long and devious ways, Thadon had been contacted, told the terms and objectives and he had accepted.

Thadon found he had a particular disdain for such petty rulers and despots, even though Thantados usually had no concern for their targets in any way – they were simply targets and nothing else, but – those who had their positions through fear or murder or greed, and who thought that those positions gave them "right" to rape and murder at will? He would extinguish this target quickly and precisely – as was his art – and the universe would not miss the dead. If he took some satisfaction at the being's extinction – well, that was simply from a job well-done and urgently needed.

Thadon judged his precise moment, as the procession came closer, waited, and with absolute grace and precision, he had leapt from the building, came down lightly over the "Dominance" and had a blade wedged in his throat and the ruler dead before anyone had actually seen him land. He was off the transport and through the unresisting crowd before a female screamed and a male shouted as the "Dominance" gouted a long line of blue-purple blood into the afternoon air.

* * *

**"You do good work,"** Thadon's contractor told him, handing a heavy bag of currency to him. "With the Dominance dead, the rest of the government will fall into line – and we'll abolish this 'divinity rule' once and for all."

"Your politics mean precisely nothing to me." Thadon told him. His fingers squeezed the bag once, and his stance didn't change, but his voice did. The man blinked. "You are several thousand kromas short."

"You can tell by feel?" The contractor's aide asked, surprised, also inadvertently confirming the shortage.

"I am, for the moment, going to assume that this shortage is merely an oversight on your part, and that the rest is forthcoming - " Thadon told the people before him, added casually, " – and that I assure you that I _can_ kill you, your aides and the three 'hidden' behind me as easily as I removed the Dominance from this existence. If I must search your corpses for the rest, I will." He smiled coldly at the frowning contractor, lips parting like the zipper on a bodybag. "I have no particular preference."

The contractor looked at him for several microts, smiled slightly and snapped his fingers.

"Revolutions are expensive," he said quietly, to Thadon's nod. An aide handed over another bag, with the rest of his money inside.

"Indeed they are. Better, however, to be alive to see them through." He stashed the payment in a pocket, turned to leave, abruptly turned back, asked, seemingly as casual, "Those Peacekeepers – did the Dominance contract them?"

The contractor thought about it for a few moments.

"Yes, several weekens ago. The Dominance 'gave' them a moon to garrison." He glanced back at an aide, who nodded in confirmation. "Why? Is it important?"

Thadon had continued walking at that point, had reached the door.

"Just passing interesting. Personally, I'd send up a fleet while they're relatively small in number." He stopped in the doorway. "Your revolution will mean very little if you simply become another 'protectorate' of the Influence."

With that, he closed the door, made his way to where he'd hidden his ship.

_Revolutions_, he thought. _I may usher in one of those myself, if I can find her again._

He'd set something in motion, he knew.

It was only a matter of time.

As he approached his ship, Thadon smiled suddenly. There _was_ a way to track Shivi'na's crew – their reputation were growing at almost a constant rate. He gave a short laugh, climbed aboard his blade-shaped craft and immediately took off.

It was an old Thantados adage: sometimes, the best way to find someone was to find their enemies.


	2. Chapter 2

**HE DIDN'T WANT TO HEAR IT, BUT HE KNEW IT WAS INEVITABLE.**

Crichton had ordered them here, and Haxer now approached the eatery openly, for this world catered to his kind – pirates – and there was no law enforcement – officially – of any kind. It wasn't hard to spot his crew or their table, for there was a respectful distance around it and them. He saw the white splash on Chak'sa armor of their new 'insignia' – the skull and crossbones like the one on the _Vengeance._ He wore his on his back, square between his shoulder blades. He rather liked it. Shiv wore hers in the same place, which had surprised him. He'd figured she'd have refused it – being in/famous - but she hadn't.

That skull and crossbones was _already_ known across the Uncharteds.

He strode up, tossed Chak'sa a smile that was returned, and sat down on the chair waiting for him. He slid the datachip across the table at his Captain.

"I checked it." He told Crichton. "Like your contact says, it hasn't been tampered with – it's as legit as it gets." Across the table from him, sat a small winged creature that looked like a cross between a huge moth and a koala – a B'ee'l - crouched about motra away. It had brought the datachip.

On their way to the Hoj Mocai Cartographer's – the supposed finest mappers in the Uncharteds - the crew of the _Vengeance_ had been diverted and stopped here – Torgarta, a so-called 'Pirate planet' - at a call from one Gofru Haree, local info-broker, and someone Crichton knew through his past association with Reihna Karadandidos.

"_This one's free, Crichton, and damned peculiar. Part-payment for past services." _He'd told them. _"I'll send Mo'ka to fill you in." _Mo'ka, the B'ee'l.

Crichton eyed the chip suspiciously. He looked up at Haxer.

"The data's clean?" Haxer nodded, ordered food.

"Timestamp and drone-signal confirm it." Someone – most likely info-pirates – (_in an age of high- tech electronics, it was only natural there would be those who would pirate and sell that information_) had intercepted a Peacekeeper data courier drone – a robot mail system, in essence, that had had High Command insignia on it – "Eyes Only" to Special Services. Special Services meant _Scorpius_. "The local watch-station tracked the drone coming through the system yesterday, local time."

Crichton fingered the disc.

"What did you get off it?"

Haxer shrugged. "Apparently, Special Services have had teams scouring space around the T-varia and E-varia Asteroid ranges."

"Why are they special?"

Haxer gave him a sideways smile.

"They were the scene wherein several cycles ago an unknown spacecraft supposedly appeared from nowhere and destroyed a Peacekeeper prowler doing its duty attempting to recapture an escaping Leviathan prison transport. Those teams are there looking for … something."

"Sonofa_bitch_." Crichton shook his head. Looking for the wormhole Johnny first came through, eh? Crichton had to admire Scorpius' determination. The half-breed bastard never gave up. He scratched his chin with his thumb, looked over at Mo'ka, thumbed a small gold cylinder in his direction, which the B'ee'l deftly caught. "Thanks." Mo'ka chittered and buzzed away. Haxer's food arrived and he proceeded to wolf it down.

"Why is that important?" Shiv asked, sipping a pink-crimson drink, watching Haxer eat. Shiv required only one large meal every two weekens, and was days away from being hungry enough to eat it. If she had to, however, Shiv could go far longer without, but not by preference. Haxer ate as if he had been starved. "You have said that it is doubtful they can exploit wormholes in any meaningful way."

"It's the one Crichton came through the first time – and split through – the implication is that the damn thing is stable."

"Thus usable?"

"Close enough."

"They must really be desperate." Haxer said, polishing off his plate. "All battle-channels talk about is the Scarran preparations."

"A whole frelling planet with rudimentary spaceflight, shortsighted leaders and a backward, superstitious, media-controlled populace." Crichton shook his head. "The dumb bastard's a sitting duck."

"_If _Scorpius can use it, that is."

Crichton nodded, said, "Yeah, _if_.", snagged a waiter as he went by and ordered a Raslak. Haxer ordered a Cojan – the UT equivalent of coffee - and Chak'sa ordered a Reshaan 'bloodwine' – neither blood nor wine. Haxer caught a whiff of Shiv's drink, looked at her cup and wrinkled his nose.

"Shiv – what the frell are you drinking? It smells like Riken."

"It _is_ Riken." Shiv told him, matter-of-factly, and Haxer's eyes bugged, he reached for it, but Shiv deftly avoided his hand.

"Are you _farhbot?_ That can _kill_ a Sebaceanoid in less than fifty microts! That stuff's _poison!" _Crichton looked over at Shiv, who looked back and simply said,

"Not to me.", to which Crichton went back to contemplating the datachip. "I may _look_ Sebaceanoid, but I am _not_ Sebaceanoid."

Haxer stopped trying to take it away, just watched Shiv incredulously as she stared at him and took another sip.

"I appreciate your concern," she told him dryly, "but I am immune to most kinds of toxins. _My_ digestive system is _very_ selective."

Haxer looked on with a kind of morbid fascination as she sipped again.

"Just interesting to see you imbibing." A pause. "Uh… what… what's it taste like?"

Shiv stopped and thought for another moment or two.

"Like it smells."

"It smells like _blood_." He told her. "Sebacean blood, anyway."

Shiv crooked an eyebrow at him, took another obviously deliberate sip, and he looked at her oddly, wondering if she were actually actively 'bantering' with him, shook his head over the vagaries of females, reached for his Cojan as it arrived.

"I think I'll stick to what I like – and can safely ingest."

"That is usually wise in these instances."

"Hax…" Crichton asked after a gulp of his Raslak. "Any way to completely verify the information in this?"

"Not really – not absolutely. You'd have to grab the drone – and they tend to self-detonate when you try – but _if _you could, you'd have to pull its storage, check the data, track the drone back to whatever depot it came from, and check the data there to see if it matched."

Crichton snorted.

"Right." Not frelling likely. He took another drink. "So I can assume its legit?"

"Your contact was right – it _is_ peculiar – just peculiar enough to be true. From what _I _can tell, it's legit. All the decryption algorithms and idents match up."

Crichton scratched his stubbly chin.

"He must be closer than I thought." He muttered to no one in particular. "Still… without proper calculations and trajectories, he's just going to get his Carrier and his own necrotic ass crushed – and good riddance."

"He won't risk that," Haxer said, gulping his Cojan.

"Nope, but if they're as desperate as you say, they might."

"People do seriously crazy things when they're _really_ desperate," Haxer told him, to his nod. He knew that all too well.

"True enough," Crichton waggled a finger at their drinks. "Finish up, we're still on our way to the Cartographer's." Nods, and they were soon done and on their way.

It was about an arn into the trip when Haxer had the misfortune to comment – off-handedly:

"Y'know – there's no guarantee that Scorpius will go _first."_

"Hax – you're rapidly becoming a large pain in my ass." Crichton growled at him, and altered course.

* * *

**MIRIYA SCREAMED A SCREAM THAT COULD NOT BE HEARD.**

White-hot agony speared through her entire body, arcing her in a bow of pure pain. She didn't know where she was; somewhere on a Carrier somewhere in some nebula. Every nerve in her body was immersed in burning acid hotter than hellfire. It felt as if her body were _slowly_ being shredded. There was no way to articulate such pain. She screamed, but no sound came out – the pain was beyond that.

The white-clad torturer, over three metres tall and with skin a grey-green – (like a corpse, _she'd thought on first seeing the alien_) frowned with its lipless mouth on a flat face and looked down at its aide with large dark, pupil-less eyes.

"Your reading?" It asked in a ratcheting voice. It frowned deeper as Miriya gasped out another silent scream.

The aide, a creature that looked as if someone had stuffed dozens of half-melted, half-filled beach-balls into a green plastic bag, sniffed and replied,

"9.2 ergstans, D'g'sta."

"Remarkable, Blio. Remarkable. She is strong. _Very_ strong." It stroked the control panel before it, and Miriya felt a wave of cold wash over her, bringing sweet relief, it too almost painful.

"I said you are very strong," D'g'sta told her, seemingly rather pleased. "The strongest yet."

Miriya's head lolled, her violet eyes rolling loose in their sockets.

"Is she conscious, Blio?"

"Barely. I would estimate that she could withstand 9.5 for perhaps fifty microts. Any higher would result in either permanent coma or termination, regardless of exposure."

"No, no, we mustn't have that, no, no. She is very strong, she has been very informative." D'g'sta waved at two Sebacean guards nearby. "Take her to her cell, nourish her and allow her to sleep." They nodded, gathered Miriya and left. She had no bones or muscles and had to be carried.

"_You have mapped nearly all of her neural patterns. Your induction technique works quite well_." Scorpius' voice floated down from above them. D'g'sta bowed its head briefly in acknowledgement.

"Many think the pain is simply to 'soften' the subject, but this is not true – the pain itself focuses conscious thought _away_ from the mind, from the ability to raise any mental blocks. Behind that wall of pain, we may scan and map at will."

"_Most efficacious."_ Scorpius nodded down. "_Is it a new technique_?"

"For Sebaceans, yes," D'g'sta replied. "My people – The Kr'shah – have used this method for many hundreds of cycles." It stroked a long-fingered hand across Blio's back. "My companion's race, the N'ka, have perfected the scanning technique and translation matrices. Blio here is a master of the intricacies of the scans."

Scorpius nodded again, looking at the translations of Breannados' neurologic scan. They _were_ extensive and highly informative, but there was little interest to him. His Aurora Chair could do the same thing without the dangers. The two below were Grayza's dogs, and Breannados had been given over to her; why – he neither knew nor care.

Scorpius merely observed from sheer curiosity's sake. Breannados was on a Security Directorate Watchlist – and thus immune from Scorpius' Aurora Chair. Why she was on the list was a mystery, but not one Scorpius cared enough about to follow on. This induction technique was Grayza's toy, and since Scorpius could not be _officially _curious in Breannados' mind…

Breannados' memories of times spent with this 'pirate version' of Crichton were especially vivid, but Scorpius didn't linger – he was no voyeur, as interesting as they might have been. No, what he was far more interested in was this Crichton's _attitude_, as it were, how he operated, how he thought. He was not, Scorpius had begun to discern with some small disquiet, behaving according to type.

_Piracy?_ Unlike him. Nothing seemed to jibe. From what Scorpius had sieved from Crichton previously, what his acumen and discernment could uncover was that Crichton seemed to have two overriding motivations: wormholes, and a way back to his home planet. It seemed now, that since one Crichton had done precisely that – return home via a wormhole – this one seemed to have _abandoned_ both objectives.

He was not, frankly, acting as one expected a Crichton to act.

Had Furlow been incorrect – and had Scorpius miscalculated so badly?

No. Everything in Miriya's memories indicated that this Crichton _was_ indeed a Crichton – if somewhat… muted, darker. Naturally. It was going on two cycles, which can change anyone – if it is tumultuous enough, and Crichton had always the potential to become a rather formidable foe – or ally, if one could play it correctly, which he doubted Grayza was doing. _Crichton as a willing ally?_ Would this one, now, be open to such a possibility? Scorpius was prepared to pay much to achieve that aim – if it were at all possible. If he failed.

"_Scorpius_," Braca, on ship-comm.

"Yes, Braca?"

"_Deruga has completed his report_."

"I shall read it in full later. Summarize it, if you would."

"_Point-by-point sector analysis has given out tentative confirmation of the position of the wormhole you requested the team seek. However, it appears to be somewhat erratic in its position_."

"It's moving?"

"_It would appear so, sir. Tech Jahee surmises it may simply be the mouth of the wormhole shifting position. There is a large EM source in the area_."

"A star?"

"_No, sir. It is apparently coming from an asteroid cluster in the vicinity. The composition of the majority of rocks is carheliandum and rhodiaium_." Scorpius nodded to himself. Both elements together gave off strong electromagnetic fields. It was usually nothing more than a hazard to navigation, but now it was a _beacon_.

"Tell them to concentrate on the region of densest concentration in that field, Braca. That should be the strongest loci point for the wormhole's mouth. I want it timed to the millimicrot."

"_Yes, sir_. _It will take time, sir._"

"As long as it is precise, Braca. We cannot afford mistakes at this late date. Prepare Nerada Lamm's team."

_ "She is down to only two, sir, since the accident."_

Yes, of course. One of the preliminary tests.

"Tell her she may recruit replacements as she sees fit. I trust her judgment in this area, Braca. Once done, there are to be on constant standby, and ready to go at a microt's notice. We'll use the new Marauder."

"_Yes, sir – at once_."

Scorpius smiled down at an image of the one-eyed Crichton displayed from Breannados' memories. This Crichton was, in this venue, useless to him. Even his enhanced Aurora Chair was unlikely to crack the encryption in his head. The induction technique had potential, but… no. This Crichton would make himself a corpse first. There was, however, no need to bother with _this_ particular Crichton at all.

If he was correct – and he usually was – he had at last found the wormhole to _Earth._

_

* * *

_

**IN HER CELL, MIRIYA WOKE FROM A FITFUL AND ACHING SLEEP.**

She groggily checked herself over for wounds – sure that whatever device she'd been placed in had wrought terrific havoc on her flesh – and found …nothing. Nary a scratch, yet she knew she'd not imagined that mind-searing agony.

_Frell. Pain by nerve induction. Of course._

Not the Chair, and although Scorpius had been there he'd seemed to have no interest in her.

What the frell was going on?

She lay on the cot, closed her eyes, watched the red and orange fireworks pop on the inside of her eyelids.

_There was no need to interrogate me. I don't know anything. Unless… _Crichton. _Naturally. Why the torture, though? And with nerve induction? Makes no sense. That's not Scorpius._

Miriya rolled painfully away from the door of her cell, faced the wall as a guard strolled by. There was nothing to gain from torturing her, other than some perverse pleasure. Any intelligence she had on Crichton was of interest only to anthropologists, not strategists. She knew little of his plans, and nothing of his agenda. She had not gotten inside of him. Well, he _had_ warned her, and she couldn't really blame him for her predicament, although she was going to, anyway.

_Frell, frell, dren and frell! _Despite it, she found herself wishing quite mightily for him to get her out of this mess.

She heard the cadence of footsteps change outside, lighter, yet purposeful. They stopped at her door.

"Miriya," a voice she didn't recognize said though her cell door. Miriya rolled over. In her doorway was a tall woman with dark brown hair and the dark blue uniform of the notorious Enhanced Infiltration and Tactical Subversion division of Special Services – better known in popular parlance as "Disruptor Command". It was odd to see a EITS operative on a Carrier. They were not particularly popular with the average Peacekeeper. Their tasks were always necessary, allegedly, but their methods were not always appreciated.

"What do you want?" Miriya said wearily, rolling away. "I'm not a talker."

The woman merely said, in an odd musical cadence: "Nerrimandi".

Miriya stopped as if struck, suddenly rolled back, sat up –

…and smiled.

* * *

**"YOU HAVE _GOT_ TO BE FRELLING KIDDING ME."**

"Lo, 'tis true, I tell thee in all candidness." The old one told him, rheumy eyes squinting at him through the pulse-proof shield. Like a bank, there was a small gap in front for transactions.

Haxer eyed the old man, scowled. Brogan Ladas was, on the surface, the ancient and harmless proprietor of an equally ancient computer mod shop. No one, however, _ever_ bought a mod from the man.

"Who sent this information?"

"I cannot say, Sire."

"How can you insist on its authenticity if you don't know who sent it?"

Ladas pointed a twig-like finger at the screen that Haxer was now directing a scowl – at three characters in particular. He didn't look at the screen.

"Frell. E.I.T.S. Surveillance." Hax glanced back at Ladas. "You've got one Hezmana of a network."

The old one shrugged and Haxer swore he could hear his bones rattle.

"How may one know the value of information unless one hears for oneself? I cannot tell the trivial from the serious." Another slight shrug. "This thou must determine for thyself."

Haxer slid a small bag under the partition.

"That enough for this particular trivia?"

The old one's fingers crawled over the bag like a spider, rested there. A moment and a nod followed. Haxer handed his small portable data carrier over and Ladas uploaded the information.

Back on the _Vengeance, _Haxer played it for Crichton. It merely confirmed that the information he'd received on Alsati was true. Scorpius was close. _Too_ close.

Decision time.

Technically, it wasn't _his_ knowledge, _his_ planet, or _his_ damn problem. He'd be risking ship, crew and life for people who simply didn't or wouldn't care.

He'd been left behind to be the sacrificial goat for Scorpius.

Scorpius hadn't bitten.

_Too bad for Johnny._

Crichton pondered. Then he pondered some more.

"Desperate, you said," Crichton said at length. "Will he risk a Carrier, though?"

"Not right away, he won't." Haxer told Crichton, who nodded. "Are we going first? Using the wormhole?"

"No." Crichton told him. "We won't be using it. Neither will anyone else." He programmed coordinates into the Nav board. What the hell – he supposed it wouldn't kill him to do _something_.

"Next."

The _Vengeance _slashed through the starry night.

* * *

**THE OLD ONE SQUINTED OVER AT HIM.**

"Why do you trouble me?" She asked Crichton with all the air of someone not that troubled, used to trouble.

The _Vengeance_ hovered motionless outside her door. The front landing gear was down, as it doubled as the access stairs for the main hatchway. Haxer stood in it. At its end, Crichton stood solidly on the foot-plate, buffeted by the wind. Far below, he could just make out the silver ribbon of a river. The stone home he looked toward was perched high on a spire of rock, seemingly inaccessible by any means other than he now employed.

Standing in her doorway, the venerable and formidable Ainye Mirada Synwynd, age indeterminate but great, as steady as the spire she inhabited. She resembled a huge crow with a humanoid face, with the same large pitiless yellow eyes, cloaked in heavy black feathers and faded finery. Until unseated by Reihna Karadandidos, Synwynd had been the one true Pirate Queen of the Uncharteds.

For thirty cycles she had roamed and plundered without let or hindrance, unchallenged until one day her ambitions led her to the small but wealthy system of Hashane-Miliam. Synwynd had her pirate fleet and her cunning. Hashane-Miliam had their own admittedly small but well-trained and provisioned fleet _and_ commissioned Peacekeeper protectors.

They should have won. Synwynd attacked anyway. Some reports said she had only thirty ships, some said she had five times that number. Three solar days later, she'd occupied the capital with only three thousand pirates and proceeded to loot the place. The fabulous wealth she stole, they say, she hid on some secret planet, waiting to be found. No one could say how she'd really done it, but it made her an eternal legend.

She hadn't cared. She'd made and thrown away a dozen 'fabulous' fortunes, led thousands and killed fifty thousand foes - and now sought only solitude.

Karadandidos could have it – if she could hold it.

"Who else should I trouble with this, Ainye?" Crichton shouted over the wind. "You're the only one who has what I need."

"You've come far." She told him. Her voice seemed to have no trouble carrying through the wind. For some reason he could never fathom, Ainye was quite fond of him. He'd done her some small services, saved her life unknowingly from a couple of bounty hunters, but he'd done nothing he could see that warranted such affection. She could …see things, he'd learned, and he no longer questioned it. Still, he'd long since decided not to look gift horses in the mouth when he had no need. She had vowed to him – for saving her life – that someday he could come to her and ask anything in return.

That someday was today.

"You'll die on your own soon enough - why stick your head in the M'redag's jaws?"

Crichton just shrugged and she regarded him awhile.

"Ghosts and ideals?" She asked quietly.

Crichton shook his head.

"The dead are dead, Lady."

She seemed to sigh, or perhaps laugh, he couldn't tell.

"You will soon be dead, Crichton. I see this, I know this. It is perhaps regretful."

He just send her a crooked smile. His life meant little, and his death would mean precisely nothing.

"I won't be missed."

She fluffed, settled.

"Good. That's good. Leave nothing for the bone-pickers." She contemplated him for another moment, then held out something that resembled a large silver square, cut here and there with irregular shapes. "Destroy it when you're done, John. Don't allow anyone else to have it."

Crichton took the object, shoved it in his pocket.

"Are you sure?" She nodded.

"My heart is a graveyard," she told him, with something that might have been a sad smile. "I await only to be buried therein."

Crichton saluted her, nodded, climbed back toward the hatch.

"I'll see you there, Lady." He paused. "Thank you."

She halted him, bade him back, handed him a datachip. He looked at her quizzically. She smiled.

"Hashane-Miliam." She cackled. "You can give them a legend they'll choke on."

Crichton nodded, pocketed it as well. _Later_, he told himself.

"Yet, I have done you no good, Crichton." She turned, shrugged as she went, perhaps sighed, "_Cr__ê__e'la nev'mev'la. Ove h__õ__l'la dol_." She closed her door.

Crichton stepped through the hatch, closed it behind him, commed Shiv and told her to proceed to their next destination. She acknowledged. He looked at Haxer. "You and Chak'sa are up to speed on what I need you to do from here on out?"

"Absolutely." He paused. "I …know languages, Boss." Haxer said, as Crichton passed him. "That was a new one on me."

Crichton looked back at the hatch.

"That language is dead, Hax. She's the last of her kind, and the last to speak it." He sounded almost sad. "She said, '_Where death goes, I have gone. When we meet it shall be sweet.'_"

"Interesting." Haxer said, securing the hatch.

"Prophetic," Crichton muttered.

* * *

"**Are you certain that this is the best way to proceed?"** Shiv asked him when they'd returned to Peacekeeper space.

"Every plan has its pitfalls and uncertainties." Crichton seated himself comfortably and gazed out the forward portal. "This isn't something I pulled out of my ass just last night, Shiv – I've been thinking about this for quite some time. I've modified it a bit, but it'll work."

"I do not believe this is wise." Her skepticism was evident. Crichton just eyed her and said coldly,

"So much for our frelling oaths."

"My oath is my oath." She told him, as coldly, after a moment of contemplating him. "It is not a lack of confidence in _you_. Where you go, I shall frelling go." One eyebrow arched slightly. "We may simply be asking for a _great deal_ of trouble."

He stared back, then looked back into the starry night.

"If I'd wanted a critique, I'd have asked for one." He said after a moment, without heat. "All you have to do is trust me and do what you do best."

Shiv's voice had returned to normal when she replied.

"I can do little else." Shiv looked thoughtful, then said, "If this phenomena is as dangerous as you say…"

"_If_ the Peacekeepers manage to get Crichton – _if _Scorpius manages to get his stupid unencrypted ass into the Aurora Chair – _if_ they can build a viable wormhole weapon, even if they just master travel through one – or any or all - we're _all_ screwed. _Apocalyptically_ screwed."

"That is a great many if's."

"I'd like to think that I'm right – that they won't crack it or reach Earth or grab Crichton. I'd _like_ to think that." He sighed. "I just can't risk it."

"Are there any choices?"

Crichton laughed a laugh without humor.

"Yeah. All bad."

"Which will you choose?"

Crichton laughed that flat laugh again.

"Probably all of 'em."


	3. Chapter 3

**MIRIYA AWOKE TO THE CLOSED CONFINES OF A PRISON TRANSPORT.**

She wasn't in a cell, just on a dirty cot, wedged in a corner. There were two other techs with her, both prisoners like herself, a young man who looked to have been worked over a few times, and keeping to himself, and an older woman, older than Miriya, who sat with arms crossed and a defiant look on her face. They were not in cells, simply because they were "just techs" as far as Peacekeepers were concerned, and no 'real threat'.

Miriya was determined that that would be considered a mistake from this day onward.

She assessed. Standard light transport, probably a _Raga _or a _Venross - _class corvette. A pilot, a navigator, three guards. The ship was dren, looking as if it hadn't been either serviced or cleaned in quite some time. Her expert eye noted details. This tub had to be almost fifty cycles old.

"Hey, you - fire-hair." One of the guards pointed his rifle at her. He had a pockmarked face, a large jagged scar that slashed his face, across his lips, giving him a permanent sneer. She brushed her hair, hopelessly unkempt, from her face. She didn't miss that he watched her intently as she did it. Miriya knew _precisely_ how she looked to most Sebacean males.

"Yes?" She asked with just enough air, breathy, and sounding just a little melancholic.

"Whatchoo do, huh? Pretty thing like you? Whatchoo break?"

"Nothing." She told him, putting on her best innocent face. "I'm a victim of circumstance."

"That's too bad. Arenjuni's no place for you." He shrugged, turned away. "Too bad."

Miriya cursed under her breath. _Arenjuni?_ On the outskirts of PK space, it was supposed to be a "work planet", a prison world, but it wasn't, not really. Run by Kennis Mar, a PK Captain with many connections and no scruples whatsoever, Arenjuni was a prison only on paper. He ran a slave market, selling 'choice' prisoners to the highest bidder.

_She was not going the frell to Arenjuni!_

Moving back on her bunk as if in horror at the prospect, Miriya furiously looked and thought, trying to remember everything she could about these ships, looking for something to exploit. She had no tools, nothing but her wits. A slow smile crossed her lips.

_Use the tools you had,_ she told herself, remembering an old maxim of an early instructor. _The finest techs innovate, not simply imitate. But they do not ignore the tried and true._

Miriya surreptitiously unzipped the single piece overall they'd forced her into_, sans_ underwear, exposing round and supple flesh, scrunched up on the bunk, positioned herself advantageously in the light and put her head back – all "despair".

One of the guards looked around again, the youngish one with the brown hair and serious face, Miriya put her head down and sighed, looked at him with veiled eyes. Miriya - as a rule, like all self-assured, intelligent and talented women - did not depend on her appearance. She knew perfectly well, however, how attractive she was, and she knew perfectly well how to use that to her advantage, when necessary. She sighed lower, hugged herself, which naturally – and innocently, of course - accentuated her cleavage. She closed her eyes, looked away in "hopelessness". She felt, rather than saw, the guard lick his lips.

"Keep yer mind on business," the pockmarked one growled, and Miriya cursed him. "None of that, now."

"It'd be a shame…" one guard rejoined. "Just giving _that_ away."

"She won't last long, sure." He sniffed. "Not when Mar's done."

"It's a long trip," the third guard said, making himself heard. "Can't hurt. Been awhile too."

They argued about it for a good quarter-arn longer, and Miriya did her best to centre herself and calm the anger at being considered nothing more than a piece of meat. Eventually, they decided and she sat there, waited, eyes closed, until she heard one come closer, opened her eyes to see the brown-haired guard standing over her.

"You heard, yah?" He leered down at her. "You want some privileges?"

"I'd do anything not to have to go there," Miriya told him, completely truthful. Inside, she was completely offended and totally furious. Not a flicker of it crossed her face.

"You give us no fuss, now, do as you're told, and you get consideration." Miriya nodded, the meek tech, knowing they meant not a word of it. He motioned with his gun for her to stand.

"You drop that now," He told her, indicating her coverall. "Give me some access."

Miriya did as she was told, hesitant and modest, but pulling her coverall off, allowing it to slip slowly down. Pockmark made a noise as she did, something inarticulately appreciative. Miriya dropped the coverall to her feet, stood there naked but for her boots, completely unperturbed by her nudity. She slid the coverall away with a foot. Brown-hair made a 'turn-around' gesture, and she did, felt a gloved hand on her back, pushing her into a bend. She put her hands against the bulkhead for support. Brown-hair leaned over her back as he fumbled to free himself.

"You just let it happen, and there won't be any problems." He hissed by her ear. Miriya nodded. He kicked her feet apart, and Miriya heard the clunk of a belt and trousers on the floor. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the business end of his rifle, set down to rest against the bulkhead, an arm's-length away.

With two smooth movements, Miriya waited until he'd stepped forward and then succinctly kicked up and back, calf connecting squarely and making him squeal in a pitch not often heard by Sebacean males, and then pivoting to scoop up his rifle and putting two shots expertly into the remaining guards. A swift kick to the head relieved Brown-hair of his more immediate pain. Still naked, Miriya marched smartly into the cockpit and jammed the barrel of the rifle into the pilot's neck.

"We're not going to Arenjuni," she told him, "but you knew that." He nodded.

Behind her the two other tech prisoners were looking at her with awe. The much-beaten young man was kicking Pockmark with relish. The older woman just stood there, crossed her arms and smiled.

"Find me something decent to wear," she told the older woman. To the pilot she ordered, "and _you_ find somewhere decent to drop us off."

* * *

**THADON NO'HALLADAN** adjusted his new outfit, found it slightly too tight at the waist, popped a strategic seam, made it serviceable. He checked his identification chip again, memorized it's details. The new gene-markers in his blood would pass any blood scan and the 'fixes' to his eyes made them look Sebaceanoid 'normal'. A pigment injection darkened his skin. His ship had been secured in a registered depot, and the man whose name he'd borrowed quietly eliminated and vanished.

It was not the first time he'd been someone else. He was Thantados – and they were the supreme assassin.

It was sheer chance, a rather large risk, but for Shivi'na he was prepared to risk much – risk _everything_ – whatever was necessary.

He took one breath, centered himself.

He was not, despite what others may have thought about Thantados, a gambler, yet this could cost him – cost him everything.

No matter.

Whatever it took.

With all the casual air of being where he was supposed to be, was what he appeared to be, No'Halladan walked easily into the recruitment centre and handed his ident chip over with a smile.

* * *

**MIRIYA FRIED THE TRANSPORT'S CONTROLS AND HELPED HERSELF TO ANY CURRENCY THE DEAD POSSESSED.**

Dressed in a surplus uniform from the ship's meager stores, armed with a pulse pistol from Pockmark, and most of the currency on the guards and pilots, she made her way through the bustling crowds of a place the pilot called "Kaljh", the closet Commerce area with no real PK presence. The other two techs had thanked her and long-since vanished into the throngs. Miriya was confident that she could forget the living Peacekeepers she left behind – they wouldn't be contacting anyone anytime soon. She didn't have much, but she had more than she'd started with – the money was just enough to buy her a few choice tools and something to eat at a local café. She knew she could have just as easily marooned the pilots and stolen the transport, but she'd vetoed the idea the moment she'd had it. Too easy to track, few defensive measures, no appreciable speed or maneuverability. In short, the thing was a piece of junk.

All she needed to do now was… well, figure out something. She had no idea how long she'd been 'out' as it were. Much of her time in PK custody was spent either unconscious or in a haze of pain. She felt perfectly well, if very tired, a bit sore here and there, nothing major, but you couldn't take that sort of thing for granted. She needed viable transport off this rock. A rock Kaljh actually was – a hollowed-out asteroid circling a cinder circling a dying star. Miriya weighed options available to her and found she liked none of them.

_Damn Crichton! _She growled to herself without any real heat. She was watching the ships come and go. Before she'd encountered him, a quick smile and quicker recreation with some witless pilot or freighter captain would have solved her problems. Now… she just couldn't bring herself to simply… do it. It was _just_ sex, for frell's sake! It meant _nothing_. The problem was… the "just" part wasn't sticking. It _shouldn't_ mean anything, but dammit, it _did_, and she didn't know when that attitude had changed for her, but she knew Crichton was to blame.

Well, if he was to blame, he'd just have to make up for it.

A check of the local bounty hunters and wanted beacons came up with nothing. There was no ships worth stealing, and she had only enough money left for one night at a local squat. She was close to frustration when she spotted the ancient Luxan Eradicator, and it's pilot and passenger, which elicited a broad smile and a silent sigh of relief.

They weren't exactly friends, that particular Luxan and that particular Nebari, but at the moment, they were close enough.

* * *

**THREE DAYS LATER, AND MIRIYA HAD SETTLED IN.**

She slept in Crichton's old cell, and made herself comfortable there. A commerce planet and a handful of borrowed cash bought her clothes, sundries and anything else she needed. She started to feel like herself again just as Evigan Koiban returned from a run at a nearby Commerce Planet, and carrying a wanted beacon. From it, they learned that "Crichton's Pirate Band" was last seen in the so-called "Vash'ras Wilderness", and Moya obligingly took Miriya there, after she'd evinced an interest in returning to Crichton's side, telling a long, sad story of livelihood lost, and torture borne. Miriya paid back her board with repairs and glitch tracking.

As enhanced as Moya now was, she still had those little irritating glitches that plagued any working ship. Miriya spent her time concentrating on that while the search went on, doing her best not to think too much about what she would do when and if they did find Crichton. The rest of her time was spent making friends with Chiana, finding that they shared a certain streak of deviltry.

At one point, another day or two along, Moya had thought she found the _Vengeance_, but lost it, only to find it once more as it exited the "Wilderness". Miriya felt a surge of relief upon seeing it, which made her feel rather odd that she should, and was even glad to hear Crichton's irritated burr when he turned back on his course to intercept Moya, and "_find out what the frell they were doing_", since this _wasn't_ the way to keep the bounties off their heads.

There was no happy reunion with the crew of the _Vengeance_, and Miriya expected none. She transferred to the Vigilante with alacrity, bidding the Moyans an effusive and hearty goodbye and thanks. Crichton refused resolutely D'Argo's offer of aid and assistance, and finally proceeded on their way after some cajoling.

Miriya was welcomed back to the _Vengeance_ with about three hundred questions and the surprising revelation that she'd been in Peacekeeper custody for over two weekens.

_Two weekens!_ _Where did the rest of the time go? What happened?_

Miriya felt uneasy, but could dredge up no answers that satisfied anyone, including herself. A thorough run-through in the auto-doc showed no abnormalities save a few scars and some joint inflammation in her wrists and neck, quickly repaired. Crichton would tell her little about where they were going or what they were up to, and Miriya knew better than to wheedle. She'd find out soon enough.

She spent her time as the _Vengeance_ went from here to there and back again repairing more glitches, smoothing rough spots in the ship's functions, realigned the torsion compensators, improved cycling and thus firing rates on the ship's cannon, quad guns and fixed two fried circuits in the Shock Lancers. She gave 1812 a complete check and a thorough cleaning. The little droid - ungrateful little bugger - scooted away when she was finished and went back to watching her, as it had since she'd arrived.

"I'm not doing anything underhanded," she told the vigilant machine, resenting the scrutiny. "I don't have anywhere else to go."

It didn't take her long to work her way back into Crichton's cabin and bed, something she'd never doubted would take much time anyway, although she found that her contentment sleeping beside him and the comfort she derived from his presence during the night cycle disturbed her. There was an odd mixture of need and …revulsion, that arose from the emotion, and she hadn't a clue what it meant – if it meant anything, or if it were just the last few weekens catching up to her. Boiled down, it was simply that she felt that she didn't like that she liked the feeling so much. He was always gone long before she woke up, and that was also unlike her. He was as indifferent to her as always, and she wasn't sure she didn't resent that, too.

At her rather annoyingly persistent insistence, Crichton had relented and taken her back to Ogg'M'nendi. He'd been correct, when he'd answered her queries. What hadn't been destroyed had already been thoroughly looted. The entire affair was a burned-out wreck. The secure underground safe into which she'd dumped her data hadn't been all that secure. It had been found.

Miriya ranted. She screamed in rage and kicked things, threw things, and Crichton and crew could only watch in various stages of amusement and prepare to duck if any hurtled detritus came their way. While a tad out-of-character, it was perfectly understandable.

To everyone's immense surprise following the convulsion of rage, Miriya had then sat down in the middle of the wreckage and bawled her eyes out, probably the first time she'd ever done such a thing, given the duration and intensity of it. Crichton, more taken aback than any of them, tried to comfort her, only to have her latch onto him and not let go until she'd exhausted herself. During the storm, Crichton had picked her up and deposited her in his bed on the ship, and she'd not noticed. An arn later, and she'd managed to cry herself to sleep, tormented now and again by specters of bad dreams. Through it all, Crichton stayed and watched her, disquieted by the explosion of emotion.

"Frell." she'd said, upon awakening, seeing him there. "Sorry," she chuckled ruefully. "I don't know what came over me."

"It's been a trying monen," he told her, with a faint grin. "You mentioned something about 'frelling unreliable bastards' and 'nerve induction'."

Looking faintly embarrassed, Miriya wiped her face and asked him in a small voice,

"Have you been here the entire time?"

Again that faint grin, "Well, I took bathroom breaks."

She sat up, hands together between her knees. She looked small and vulnerable and Crichton wondered at it.

"This is really … unlike me. I don't do this sort of thing."

"We all reach a breaking point, Miriya. It usually comes when we don't expect it." Crichton told her, rising, stretching. He held out a mug of sweet water and a crossis bun. She accepted both dully, just staring at the bed at her feet. "It's not a small thing to lose everything that matters to you." He shrugged. "Believe me, I know. You'll get over it."

"_Get over it_?" Miriya said with little heat, but it grew as she spoke, "My shop wrecked, all my projects wrecked, my storerooms looted , my entire stash of savings – and it was _considerable – _stolen! _What in the frelling blue end of Hezmana is left? Get over it?"_

"I told you when you came onboard we got there late, did I not?" He replied, unperturbed by the explosion, calm. She nodded, irked. "But we got here before _anyone else_, Miriya."

"What are you saying, John?" She looked skeptical.

"_The Edge_ is in a secure depot in Arl Finnis' Ring Station – and your '_considerable' _money is on your ship."

"What?" Miriya seemed completely stunned. "My ship?"

"Yes, Miriya. Your money and your ship. Couldn't save anything else, but it's a start."

"You've …saved _me_, John Crichton," her brain running 'round and 'round that he had done this for her. Crichton backed away from the emotion surging through her, faintly surprised by his own reaction to it.

"No, Miriya, I didn't save anything. I just got lucky. Look - get some rest. We'll head over to Finnis' and get your stuff, all right?" Miriya beamed her huge wattage smile at him and just nodded. Crichton got out before she did something else out-of-character like leap up and hug him.

She watched him go, and stared at the door for a long while. She lay back down, putting the sweet water and bun down, forgotten, and pulled the blanket up to her chin, sighed a deep, deep sigh, and told the ceiling,

"Yes, you saved me, John Crichton." And then she began to laugh, remembering what she told herself on Kaljh, that he'd made up for it all right, and was still chuckling when she faded into sleep.

At the back of her mind, however, she wondered why gratitude should have been there at all.

* * *

**HAXER NEVER RETURNED, CHAK'SA DID, DAMAGED, BUT EXULTANT.**

The _Vengeance_ had waited in the Harrahda Frontier, just outside the V'masque Wastelands. They were on their way to pick up Miriya's ship when they'd been called by Chak'sa. Chak'sa, she was told, took priority. The ship was in full stealth, to avoid the periodic Marauder and Prowler patrols that strayed through the area. Chak'sa returned in one of the fighter-pods, and put… something in a secured area of the cargo hold before going to Crichton.

"I found it," she told him. "It was there, as promised."

"What happened to you?" he asked her, noting the slashes and abrasions on her skin. Dark blood flaked around the wounds. Some of it was still fresh.

"It had automatic defences. Synwynd did not mention those." Chak'sa grinned savagely. "She is most cunning. It was exhilarating." She noticed Miriya, who was all eyes, bade hello, which was returned.

"Go get yourself patched," Crichton told her. "Nice job." She nodded, passed him and handed over a small package as she did so. Miriya looked curious, but asked no questions. "My ship?" was the only one she offered.

"Soon enough. Shiv." He said and he and she vanished into the Ops, which he closed off. Miriya sighed, wandered back to the Auto-doc. Her doubts from the day previously had vanished, and Miriya felt like her old self again.

"Are you alright?" She asked, watching the Scarran-"blended" warrior tend to her wounds. "I'm Miriya Breannados. I built this ship. Well… I made it _unique_, which is probably more precise."

"I am fine. You build well." Chak'sa told her, stripping off her armor and under-kilts. Unembarrassed by her nudity, she climbed into the Auto-doc diagnostic chamber and allowed it to cycle. A hundred microts later, she stepped out, checked the readings. Nothing major. "I am Chak'sa Bavmorda. As you can see, it was nothing."

What Miriya saw was an amazing female physique, packed tight with rock-solid muscle, slashed here and there with old scars, but losing nothing in feminine curves for all that. Her Scarran skeleton merely heightened the appearance of strength, detracting from her appeal not in the slightest. She was adorned here and there with tattoos, and Miriya knew they were more hieroglyphic than tattoo, chronicling a harsh history to those who knew the arenas. This was no female to _ever_ take lightly.

With a grin Miriya quipped, "I know who you are," she scratched her nose. "You're famous. Best fighter Lost Fortune Arena ever had." Chak'sa nodded, but said nothing. She moved to the heal chamber to allow the machine to do its work.

"I've heard the stories." Miriya tilted her head at her. "You killed Borin Jar in _two _rounds, and crippled the Resistor when he refused to yield – allowing him to take an honorable retirement instead of being thrown to the crowds. They said you took particular relish in killing Scarrans and Sebacean collaborators."

"Stories," Chak'sa told her, not particularly impressed by Miriya's recall. Her past was not somewhere Chak'sa visited often. "People like to exaggerate."

"Sure they do," Miriya rejoined, "but they didn't have to where you were concerned." She thought a bit. "Say - aren't you usually a duo, however? You partner with a Sebacean male? A Decrypter, I think…"

Chak'sa interrupted her. "We are not lovers."

_Odd leap to make. Were – or wants to be? Interesting…_

"What's the problem?" Miriya leaned casually on a cabinet as Chak'sa stared at the ceiling, 'trapped' by the heal chamber. "He not your type?"

"I do not have a 'type'," Chak'sa told her in a cold tone, cursing that she had said that unbidden. "We are _partners_, nothing else."

Miriya put up her hands mock-defensively.

"Have it your way."

Chak'sa climbed out of the heal chamber after it had finally finished and flexed, looking for sore spots. She felt much better, at least physically. She reached for her clothes, began to dress. She fixed Miriya with a cold gaze.

"You are very curious about things that are not of your concern."

Miriya was unruffled.

"I like to know crewmates – or potential ones, at least. Wasn't aware I was prying. _You're_ the one getting defensive. He's not good enough to be a lover – well, frell, that's your call."

Chak'sa glared at her for a moment, snapped her armor back into place, feeling better with every plate as it went on.

"I did not say that he was not good enough – he is, he just –" she caught herself, cursed silently again. She snapped the last piece into place and fixed Miriya with an unmistakable look. "You reach too far, Breannados. Beware."

"There's no need for that, Chak'sa. There's no shame in caring about someone."

"It is none of your concern!" She hissed and Miriya backed off. "Do not think that simply because you are a diversionary toy for Crichton that you may take liberties."

"Ex_cuse_ me?" Miriya huffed, indignant at the implication. "I am _no_ male's _toy_! Crichton and I… – whatever we are – at least _I'm_ honest about it!" She had wondered if she were being so, and that too often enough. "Scarrans aren't exactly famed for their frelling empathy!"

Chak'sa blinked, looked offended, gained control of herself, smiled slightly.

"You are brave, Miriya. I can respect that. I am not good with… relationships."

Miriya saw something flicker in Chak'sa's eyes, some worry, a concern. _Because he wasn't back yet? Crichton send him on some fool's errand? _She relented, somewhat.

"Who is?" A smile. "Are you worried about him? Wherever he is?"

"I am always worried about him," Chak'sa said, softer. Miriya crossed her arms, tried another smile. There was no need to antagonize her. They'd be crewmates, if she could swing it. She needed allies. So she said:

"You're right, Chak'sa. I'm sorry. I just recently lost pretty much everything I've spent my life working for – that sort of thing tends to fray one's nerves." Chak'sa nodded, understanding. "I've never …loved anything, not really. Peacekeepers call it a disease, a weakness. Techs aren't indoctrinated as deeply, but still…" She shrugged. "Of course, I've never really …_tried_. No one worthy, y'see." A wry smile.

"Perhaps you should try, Breannados." Chak'sa, moving away. "It may be all that saves you."

With that she disappeared up the accessway, and Miriya followed after her.

"What do you mean by that? Save me? From what? Is that a threat?"

"No." She stopped, sighed, also relenting slightly. She had admitted more than she had intended, but Miriya had not used it against her. A few microts later, she said reluctantly, "It is something 'Haxer' said to me once, that is all." She looked faintly discomfited by sharing. "He said, '_males build and plan and design and war, but females have the courage to love us, and by loving us, they civilize us, and make everything we do worth the effort. It's the one thing that saves us_.'"

"He believed that?" Miriya asked, with no trace of mockery.

"Yes, I believe he did." She frowned.

"Do you think it'd make a difference with Crichton?" There was some faint trepidation in Miriya's voice – unexpected to both of them. Chak'sa regarded her for a moment, then replied truthfully,

"No. Not with him."

Chak'sa turned and left, left Miriya feeling uncomfortable and uneasy, suddenly wishing she'd stayed on Moya.

* * *

**"WELL… I GUESS IT'S TIME I LET YOU ALL IN ON THIS,"** Crichton told them as they gathered. He called up the holomap, pointed at a blip that pulsed on it.

"That's us." He moved his finger to a blue disjointed area. "This is the V'masque Wasteland. The computer has a hard time imaging it accurately because it's completely frelled over there."

"I've heard of it," Miriya informed him, glad to finally be in the loop. "A lot of ships get lost in there, and there were a few Picker teams that used to try and go looking. None of them ever came back…"

"I'm not surprised." Crichton told her. "V'masque is a wormhole nexus – where dozens of them come together. Wormholes, however, are kinda like opposing magnets – the apertures repel one another. When that happens, they tend to_ shred_ the surrounding space." Crichton sat down, looked grim. "Scorpius and his repeater-fitted Carrier are somewhere in there."

"Frell," Miriya breathed. "You're not seriously considering going in there after him?" She pointed to fluctuating numbers floating above the Wastelands. "Those gravity waves would rip this ship into scrap before you moved ten whole motras."

Crichton nodded, reached over, slid a datachip into the holomap projector.

"S'why I dropped by the Hoj Mocai Cartographers." He hit a key. Lines sprung up, superimposed on the current map. "The only safe routes through."

"How do they know?" Miriya sounded heavily skeptical.

"They map. It's what they do. It's as likely," Crichton rejoined. "Eventually the wormhole apertures would reach an equilibrium. Lines of stability would form. Kinda like bridges over whirlpools."

Miriya nodded. "And we're going in there to do… what, exactly?"

"Blow the Carrier and, if we're lucky, _Scorpius_, straight to hell."

"Just like that?"

"This _is_ a Veddik-class _Stealth_ Vigilante, is it not? What it's designed for, no? We sneak in, go boom, run like hell."

"You just gonna kill fifty thousand people, John?" Miriya looked disapproving.

"Don't be stupid." He snorted at her. "This is Scorpius' _experimental_ Carrier. The nerve centre of his wormhole experiments and where he keeps his _data_ – and _all the techs_ that work on it for him. The majority of the space inside that Carrier is labs, equipment and sensor platforms. There are no fifty thousand people on _that_ thing."

"Frell…" she breathed, knowing the implication. "All in one spot."  
"Exactly." He crossed his arms, looked at the holodisplay before him. Miriya kept up with the questions.

"I can see how tempting it is. Are you sure it's not a trap?"

"I doubt it. He would have left it somewhere a smidge more accessible if it were." A knowing, sardonic grin. "That doesn't mean I'm not going to treat it like one."

A nod of that red head.

"How do you plan on blowing an entire Carrier, anyway? I build pretty damn well, but not even this ship can destroy a _whole_ Carrier, lancers or not."

Crichton glanced at Shiv before answering.

"I stopped by an old friend's a while back. He swapped me something that'll do the trick quite handily."

Miriya sat back.

"Well… what?"

"Inquisitive, aren't you?" He didn't smile. "You'll find out soon enough."

Miriya stood. "You _can_ trust me, you know."

"I know how far I can trust you, Miriya, don't worry." He looked over at her, a crooked smile on his face. "You just be ready when I need you."

"I usually am," she smirked at him, to a shake of his head.

"Incorrigible." He pointed at the display. "There's a small plasma field just… here. I wanna take the ship into it to mask our initial approach."

"That'll play Hezmana with sensors." Miriya studied the readings before her. "Active plasma's not something we should be hanging around in for long."

"We won't be. Just long enough. I need you to make sure we don't have anywhere for it to sneak in and fry anything." Miriya frowned.

"That'll take awhile." Crichton nodded.

"Take 1812 with you. This is important, Miriya." He laughed softly. "You wanna be a part of my crew? This'll do it."

Miriya scooted 1812 ahead of her with a toe. "That all? Fine then. You wanted it yesterday, I suppose."

A nod. "Preferably."

"Naturally." She stepped out of Ops. "I'll call when I'm done."

Crichton took in Shiv and Chak'sa as he spoke.

"I'm sure you will."

* * *

**BELOW THE CARRIER, A GREAT SILVER-BLUE MOUTH GAPED, THEN CLOSED.**

Scorpius glanced over at Braca who had started when the wormhole had suddenly appeared, spilling its cold blue light through the bridge.

"Sorry, sir." Braca said, faintly embarrassed. "I admit that they make me nervous."

"As well they should, Braca," Scorpius told him. "They are beyond primordial. They are fundamental – the very weavings of the fabric of space itself. We, however, will be using none of these for our travels."

"As you say, sir." Braca was more interested in the mundane things of Peacekeeper life – like keeping his commander happy. "Nerada Lamm's Command Team, sir – for your inspection." He gestured back at the individuals who stood at attention behind him.

Nerada Lamm was in the top five best pilots in the entire Peacekeeper Influence. Only one still around above her, and the one above him long since fled to a primitive planet far away. She was also a canny commando and a dead shot with any pulse weapon put in her hands. She had special rank, and was – as far as that went – free to choose her own assignments, a privilege granted only the cream of Peacekeepers. She was as hardened a combat veteran as any and more than most. She should have had an honorable retirement and relegated to training the next generation. However, she had put herself under Scorpius' command, for reasons known only to herself. Scorpius nodded at her as he came closer, went down the line, looked over her recruits.

"Where did you acquire these?" He asked, nodding at First Freislan, Lamm's second-in- command, stopping before a short stocky woman, third down the line from Lamm.

"Torvan Outpost, Scorpius," she said, her voice surprisingly melodious for such a hard-looking woman. Another nod.

"And you are?" He asked her.

"Officer Yora Klun, Mejka Regiment, Saren Company."  
"Your specialty?"

"Heavy weapon deployment and explosive ordinance."

"Indeed." He moved on to the next, asked the same question of the thick and tall soldier beside her.

"Gunnery Chief Novan Harlock, Joja Regiment, Rorshak Company."

"And you?"

A tall, lean man, sharp-faced and sharp-eyed.

"Infiltration and Assassination Specialist Dawg'l Menshaf, sir. Special Services."

The last was a sandy-haired male with a neat beard and a serious face. He had the red-shouldered uniform of a Tech Officer.

"You?"

"Tech Officer Haven Sawer. Disinformation Specialist, Mohavrin Company."

Scorpius studied his face.

"Have I seen you before, Specialist?"

"One never knows, sir. I was with the Seventh Phalanx during the Meridahn Data Raids."

"Ah, yes. They do not often attribute that our techs may also wage war, yes?"

"Yes, sir."

"All cleared and checked, sir," Braca added unnecessarily. Scorpius inclined his head in acknowledgment, still staring at Sawer. After another few microts, he looked away. If Sawer was disturbed by the scrutiny, he did not show it.

"Your mission is very simple," he told them. "You are to go to a Emela-class world and retrieve a certain individual for me."

"Emela-class, Scorpius?" Lamm sniffed. "A planet of barbarians – why not simply use regular troops for this person?"

"Because, Commander, this person is none other than _John Crichton_ – and it is to his home planet you shall be going – via wormhole."

None of the team changed expression and Braca was glad of their discipline.

"When?" Lamm looked unconcerned.

"Soon. Familiarize yourself and your team with the new Marauder. I need you to go at a microt's notice. You may pick up to twenty of my guard to go with you. Your absolute priority is the capture of John Crichton – secondarily, you are to also capture the deserter Aeryn Sun."

"Why?"

"She's his weakness. He will do anything to preserve her."

"Where?" Braca handed her the coordinates.

A short, sharp nod, and Lamm lead the team out.

"A concern, sir."

"Yes?"

Braca put his arms behind his back, did his best to look thoughtful.

"Crichton has been on his homeworld for some time. It might be possible that he has become an important figure there, given that he has taken advanced technology back with him. Your own data showed that there are billions of Humans there."

"And this one Carrier full of techs would be no match even for billions of rather primitive Humans, is that it, Braca?" A nod. "That _is_ why I'm sending Lamm first. A few may often succeed where brute force and numbers will not."

"Of course, sir. My concern is chiefly that he may be so important now – and so well-guarded, that even Lamm's team may not succeed."

"I will do whatever I must to get that precious open knowledge in Crichton's head, Braca." He turned away, watched another wormhole gape and vanish beneath them.

"Even if I have to lay waste to his planet to do so."

* * *

**HAXER WATCHED THEM SET UP.**

So far, he had gone undetected. It had been a near thing, getting himself on this Carrier, but he'd succeeded. His credentials were impeccable, and he knew they were, because he'd forged them himself. He knew Peacekeeper networks, and he knew the tech networks and he knew how to make them obey him as he wished. Even now he had his data skulkers roaming the networks on the ship, hunting and eating, storing the information he wanted. Disguised as simple diagnostic programs, they would not be noticed. He would know, by the time he was finished, all Scorpius knew. He was close to his enemy – close to Scorpius, but he could do nothing yet.

Follow the plan. It was a good plan, a very good plan, and if it worked… his enemy would know what it meant to be stripped of everything and left alive, to suffer and not even know why he must do so.

Things were moving on the edges of his neurons, Haxer knew. Memories and ghosts of memories. He'd lived on a Carrier before, in that other life, in that other man's boots, and things were shifting, like shadows in a dimly-lit room. There was nothing he could concretely grab and say, 'yes, this is mine! This is a real memory of mine!', but _familiarity _was being born again, a sense of what Crichton would have called 'deja-vu' although that was not a phrase Haxer knew. There was definitely a sense of 'I know this place'.

Officer Yora Klun marched by, paused for a moment, ordered him to work. He snapped to and saluted "Yes, ma'am!", picked up his gear and followed her.

In his head he smiled, wondering what Cha would think if she could see him now.

* * *

**ENERGETIC PLASMA SKITTERED ALONG THE _VENGEANCE__'__S_ HULL.**

Like 'St. Elmos Fire', it danced and darted, looking for somewhere to ground itself. Fortunately for the ship and its occupants, the ceramic-metal composite of her hull gave the energy little purchase.

"This dren is playing havoc with sensors," Miriya told them. "As I predicted."

"You're scanning for a mass of metal basically the size of several city blocks. It'll show." Crichton rejoined, reclining comfortably in his pilot's seat. "On the plus side – far fewer patrols in here."

Miriya was watching the energy exchanges outside in the Wastelands, the nearly off-the-scale eruptions of radiation and gravity. She could understand why Scorpius would hide his experiments in here. No one would just wander casually by.

"That's because _they're_ not this crazy," Miriya muttered, eyes fixed on her screen. She half-heartedly cursed her timing – back in time to get crushed in a freakish gravity well. Hooray. Crichton just ignored the gripe.

A large object suddenly registered on her board.

"I think I found it." She tried to scan further out, found the plasma blocking the attempt. "I _think_ it's the Carrier, but this dren is playing Hezmana with any scan past a few thousand metras."

"What's the bearing?"

"Relka two-nine-zero, with a deviation of about 15 metras."

"No – that's too close." Crichton frowned, hit his comm. "Chak'sa? You ready?"

"_I need another hundred microts for the primer._" A pause. "_And another fifty for the auto-seek and grapple deploy_."

Crichton nodded though she couldn't see him. "Problems?"

"_No. Device sensitivities." _

Crichton looked over at Shiv. "The instant she's done, we move." A nod in the affirmative. "Keep an eye on that object, Miriya."

"Relka two-seven. Deviation twelve metras." She frowned. "It's coming at us – while sliding across the bow."

"They're angling in and keeping their nose to us." Crichton reached forward, primed his main cannon. "That's definitely not the Carrier." He glanced back at Miriya. "Mass readings?"

"At least twice our size. Right - not the Carrier. Now Relka two-five, deviation 9 metras." She tried refining the scan again, gave up. "Still can't identify it." She smirked over at him. "But I'm willing to bet real money that it's either an Assault-class frigate or a Revenger."

"Which is what?" Shiv asked.

"They're a specialized Interceptor-Destroyer class. Half-again as large as us." She frowned again. "Usually crewed by Borgs." She sniffed. "Relka two-two, deviation 4 metras."

"Close enough to knock." Crichton said, rising. "Shiv – keep an eye on it."

Crichton left to her nod, told Miriya to stay put when she started to rise. "Keep watching.", he told her.

"Where are you going?" She called after him.

"To change," he called back, which explained nothing.

A few moments later, Chak'sa called up that she had finished.

"Look – finished _what_, Shiv?" Miriya asked, frustrated. "I did what he asked. Am I member of the crew or not?" She slapped her comm. "Well, John – am I frelling crew or not?"

Something that sounded like the tail-end of a sigh came through his comm when he replied.

"_Sure, Miriya. Why not? Chak'sa's been priming a K'shrohn Orbital Impactor_. _That what you wanted to know?_"

Miriya's jaw dropped. _That_ would more than effectively destroy the Carrier. It'd be like a giant crushing a bug. "How the frell did you – never mind. Very clever."

"_Yeah, clever. Except for our friend out there. Where is it now_?"

Miriya checked.

"It's stopped. Holding at Relka two-two, deviation one metra. How the frell did they know we were in here?"

There was a muttered curse she didn't catch.

"_Damn-near nose-to-nose_." There was a pause. "_Stand by to repel boarders_." Crichton suddenly said, and Miriya felt an odd thrill spike through her. _Fear?_ _How did he know that they were most likely preparing to do that?_

Mere microts after he said it, there were a series of heavy booms on the hull, and across the ship, half her hatchways suddenly sliced open. Down the corridors she heard the rush of atmosphere, heavy bodies, and sudden gunfire.

Before the fight reached her, Miriya remembered most vividly _four_ distinct actions – one, a blur named Shiv that vanished into the corridor; two, the sounds of heavy pulse fire – Crichton's favorite _Forge_ rifle - the cycling of the internal and external weapon defences and of her slim fingers – _of their own volition_, coding and transmitting signals and aiming them directly _behind_ the Revenger.

Even as she gaped at her hands, even as she tried to stop them and couldn't, there was a squeal behind her, a flash and she managed to stop, grab her own pistol and whirl, fire at the dark shape that suddenly rushed at her and was hit by a battering ram as she did so.

* * *

**CRICHTON LOCKED THE LAST PLATE OF HIS SPACESUIT IN PLACE**, and smiled grimly to himself.

Not _exactly_ according to plan, but, what the hell. He was flexible. He heard the grapples slam home, could see the simulated impact points on his helmet HUD from the tie-in from the ship's sensors. Using a panel in Ops, he did a quick one-two with the keys and told the _Vengeance_ what she should do under certain circumstances. He nodded to himself when she responded and unlimbered his _Forge_ as a hatchway near him groaned and then slammed open.

_Interesting. Key overrides. Now how did they get those?_

His suit computer registered all the other hatches and access-ways on the ship opening and he nodded to himself inside his helmet, backed up and keyed a few more commands into the shielded Ops computer. He was finishing just a dark shape entered, and Crichton didn't hesitate. The _Forge_ blew it into oblivion, and he got a quick glimpse of something vaguely humanoid, wrapped in what appeared to be a kind of grey ceramic armor. He'd read about these in his studies back on Abbanerex – crippled Peacekeepers given another chance to serve by being turned into cyborgs, usually more machine than person. The 'Borgs knew they were disposable, and fought with a suicidal abandon and fury unmatched by the average Peacekeeper. They even gave Scarrans pause. There were not many 'Borgs, perhaps only a regiment or two – most 'normal' Peacekeepers tended to believe some unnamed 'vital component' was lost when one underwent the process, and thus did not opt, nor volunteer for it.

Crichton cared little. He was too close, and he wasn't about to let them derail him now. He blasted another as it entered the hatch nearest to him, sending it hurtling back into the void, plasma twisting about the corpse like mad sharp-edged orange-yellow snakes. Crichton stuck his head out of the hatch for a quick look-round, saw the dark underbelly of a Revenger latched firmly to his ship. The _Vengeance's _auto-cannons were hammering it and he smiled grimly. He found the idea of it grappled to his ship almost offensive. Almost immediately, another part of his brain began contemplating how to _steal_ it.

First things first.

As he was about to turn back in, a 'Borg dropped from an auxiliary access hatch above him and hit him from behind, propelling both out the hatch and into the plasma field beyond. The 'Borg went for his helmet seals and Crichton yell-activated the suit's actuators, effectively tripling his strength, and he returned the favor on the 'Borg, an enhanced blow to the face crushing it's visor and head behind - abruptly ending the fight.

Unfortunately, the triple-strength blow was delivered _in space_, and as Newton had put forth long ago "any reaction has an equal and opposite reaction", the blow threw Crichton back with all the force it had impacted the 'Borg – _away_ from the _Vengeance_, and out of the plasma field. Crichton cursed, almost called the ship, and cursed again. Plasma crackled around his suit, frelling up communications and the link to the ship, sparking into the unshielded parts of the armor.

He tried slowing his momentum, attempting to put what he knew about zero-gee 'swimming' into practice.

Another problem reared its head then. Crichton was not _in_ zero-gee.

He was in an area of space where intense gravity wells sprang into and out of existence without warning - beneath him, true-to-form, a wormhole suddenly opened – and Revenger and _Vengeance_, 'Borgs and pirates, plasma field and Crichton himself – were abruptly gobbled up like krill into a whale's mouth.

* * *

** HE KNEW HE PROBABLY SHOULDN'T DO IT. **

Crichton had all but demanded they keep their distance and he understood perfectly why he'd wanted it so. Safer. For them and for him. Ka'D'Argo, however, had no intention of just standing by and doing nothing. So far, they _had_ done that, but it just didn't sit well.

Whether he liked it or not, agreed or not, Crichton was a member of their dysfunctional little family, and he needed people he could trust watching his back. Moya had shadowed the _Vengeance – _from a distance of course, and they could discern the pattern of Crichton's seemingly random wanderings. When Crichton vanished into the V'masque Wastelands – wormhole territory if there ever was such a thing, Moya's crew voted and D'Argo decided – they'd follow – and do what they could. Talyn would not allow his mother to face such a thing alone, and they were glad for both the backup and firepower.

So it was that Talyn and Moya arrived to see the Revenger attack the _Vengeance_, to see Crichton thrown into space, and all subsequently sucked down a random wormhole.

The decision as to what to do next was taken from them, however, when the same wormhole came alive only moments later – and _consumed them_, as well.


	4. End

**EARTH**

**

* * *

**

**SHE STRODE INTO THE PLACE AS IF SHE OWNED IT.**

SE3 was quiet, especially outside. No doubt some zealous UFO watcher had marked her plane coming into Groom Lake with enthusiasm – another super-secret Black agent, bringing the latest reports on the endless alien autopsies and telepathic tests and back-engineered technology being exploited for some secret government cabal that planned to rule the world or defend it from – or sell it to – aliens overlords.

They weren't too terribly far off – at least as far as the back-engineering aspect went. She had come from another base that also officially didn't exist, code-named "Serendipity"; located approximately 50 kilometres northeast of Wood Buffalo National Park in Alberta, Canada, and roughly that southwest of Fort Smith in the Northwest Territories - her _Raptor_ Project nearing completion. The base was an international concern, supervised by the clandestine side of the UN, which had been set up to oversee the development of alien technology for the benefit of the _planet_, and not just one nation.

Naturally, the American government had had kittens, puppies and canaries when Crichton had proposed, revealed and then insisted on it. Aeryn Sun was nominally in charge, and made sure she got her way. She didn't care about the squabbles or petty nationalistic bleatings of any of the countries involved. However, the main control branch was in the United States - they'd managed to threaten and cajole their way into that, at least - and it was there she had to report.

Aeryn was crisp efficiency and business, brooked no delays and suffered no fools. This work was important – vital to the survival of the species as a whole. Well, the Human species, anyway.

It was a wonder she was still as calm as she felt. They had been only arns away. _Finally_… only arns away from the first _real_ real-world tests. _If_ it worked… a day, a week at the most. But not another month – _soon, soon, soon. _ They insisted on speed and then delayed with endless bureaucratic nonsense. Like this.

It was a wonder _any_thing got done on this planet.

Aeryn walked calmly through the base and seemingly-endless checkpoints – and by the time she'd actually gotten into the base proper it had begun to grate on her nerves. She'd been challenged five times as she entered "The Box", as Air Force pilots called the airspace around the base, even with her transponder and full identification readily readable by base computers.

She was just not suited to this political nonsense, this evasion and slyness – not remotely, did it only out of necessity. Soon, with luck and care, she'd put it behind her. Still and all, fighting against that, well, it kept her, she had realized, _sane_ - or at least, mostly sane. Up at dawn, up to her armpits in blueprints, specs and exotic materials, building her fighter, preparing it for the prototype, _his _prototype - a Human-built _Hetch-drive_.

John Crichton's dream. His obsession.

She sometimes wondered what'd they'd been thinking. If they had just stayed on the other side of the wormhole…

The wormhole.

He was a hero. No – The Hero. He'd punished the US for their petulant insolence and insistence and pulled his 'end run'. They'd gone on television and publicly announced that he had returned with advanced technology that he was developing and would use for the benefit of all humankind. She invited all scientists of the Earth to participate.

Apparently, there had been a few heart attacks in Washington at that, and fury that even now had not abated. "Serendipity" had been birthed from that stance. Since the disaster at the initial site, the new Hetch-drive was being reassembled there. He had been correct, as well, he did understand it better, and it was going along much more quickly, much more safely.

Well then, frell them all, anyway.

They became a worldwide phenomenon, in spite of government spin. They had thrown themselves into the work because they both knew they didn't really have much else together.

John had dictated his life out there – which in remarkably short time became a book (_she'd helped, but she'd not read it_, _she was still learning English at the time_) – it had been a smash hit and a worldwide bestseller. It still sold well. He'd turned over all the rights to his father and sisters, and they were considering movie options – or perhaps a television series, from it. She wondered why, but thought she knew – hoped she knew, the real reasons.

"_I know this important, Aeryn."_ He'd told her. _"But I'm starting to wonder if anyone can be trusted with it."_

Aeryn worked hard, but she was a soldier, not a tech. A warrior, not a mech. Not even the government inviting her to try out various fighter craft for her assessment and possible recommendations helped. They were, compared to what she flew, hopelessly outmoded. She'd pushed them all to their limits, past them, crashed thirteen of them. Her recommendations filled a manual ten denches thick. In just a few months, she'd revolutionized how planes were built, handled, flown. It didn't matter. It was a drop in the bucket compared to all the technology spinoffs that were flowing out of Serendipity, from the myriad teams there exploiting the technology. Aeryn had to admire their ingenuity. Those scientists were coming up with things for the technology her own people had never considered.  
She was glad that Humanity would benefit from all of this, but she couldn't help but wonder at the cost. What they were paying and what might be paid in the future.

She found herself wondering, too, if John realized it.

* * *

**HIS ENGINE WAS NEARING COMPLETION,** but they still needed something to put it in, and that's where she'd come in:

The _Raptor_ Project. Aeryn would design a fighter craft that would easily outstrip anything on the planet, and he'd supply the engine. "The Bone", he called it. A concession to the Americans, something to keep the resources flowing.

Oddly enough, when he'd proposed it, she started becoming suspicious of his motives.

The government had been enthusiastic about the idea, naturally, and she'd been sent to "Area 51" to set it up, get to work. She'd sat down with the tech boys and sketched out, as best she could, a Prowler.

Then, contrary to both John's wishes and expectations, she'd requested training further north, left them to figure it out, wanted to join a combat team, some special forces brigade or squad or whatever – she needed to feel 'normal', she'd said. Before she could begin. So, she went. She didn't know why she had the need, but it was there, and she needed it, so she went.

Eventually, she came back.

It didn't make it any less bitter, but it was a purpose. It was all she really had. John and she spent little time together, nowhere near enough, and Aeryn was feeling it, even though it looked as if John wasn't.

Things had fallen into their patterns and she had settled down, got to work, and tried to deal with it. Like he'd said, it was only 'temporary'. A _long_ temporary.

The wormhole was still out there. It was only a matter of time, and she knew that. Scorpius couldn't find it – he hadn't a clue where it was – yet - although there was little doubt he'd pursue that knowledge with an unwavering determination.

The _Raptor_ was as close to a Prowler as they could manage. She _knew_ Prowlers, and she knew the would-be capabilities of the _Raptor_. She was the finest pilot in all of Peacekeeper space, so she was _certainly_ the superior of _anyone_ on this mudball. Do as she told them and their dream of 'total air superiority' would be a complete reality. But, for some inexplicable reason, the Generals quibbled. They moaned and growled about the cost. She remembered once she had gotten fed up and rounded on one of them, received a reprimand. She smiled. Like she gave a cold dren.

To punish them for their nonsense, she moved the Raptor to Serendipity, also. John had been 'officially cross', but had admired her 'brass', as he called it. He _had_ given her the oversight of the thing, hadn`t he?

She wanted it over and done. She wanted results and she wanted her relationship back – before she didn't. It was selfish, she thought, but not _too_ selfish. She was a practical woman, did practical things and sitting and agonizing over things she couldn't change was not in her makeup. Today, though… there was something in the air, some instinct had gone off in her head and she couldn't trace why - it was probably that instinct that had prompted the thoughts seeping through her head. She tried not to think it, but it wouldn't go away.

Once again, that old dread of having chosen wrongly, of having made a colossal mistake, oozed through her brain.

_A mistake. It seems so unfair to call it that. But why does it feel like one?_

It had taken her awhile, but she now thought she understood it, and it was a bitter pill: Crichton had a choice to make – her or Earth. He chose, was choosing Earth. He chose the security of his planet and its billions over her, and she understood.

She was a soldier, and she understood duty.

It didn't hurt any less, however.

Aeryn stopped in the doorway to the offices of the Holding facility, brushed non-existent lint from her custom-made black uniform, removed her gloves and tucked them into an epaulet, readjusted her beret. She nodded once at the OD, marched smartly to the gleaming elevators, swiped her card, got in. The car hummed silently downward, the murmur of it eased her nerves, reminded her of the omnipresent purr of Moya.

_Moya…!_

_No. Do not go there. _

One frelling disaster at a time.

The current one was, yes, Stark. Stark. Always Stark. The Humans hadn't a clue what to do with him. He had no technology, and he'd had his own odd celebrity, but they didn't really like his ideas of 'passing on' and 'afterlives'. You could not shake a Human loose of his favorite mythology easily.

He'd gone seemingly mad, and had had to be restrained, so they sealed him in one of their vaults in Area 51 – called the "Tank". Aside from his gibbering, he'd only said five identifiable words, the first two being "Aeryn, _now_!"

At any rate, they called her and so here she was, and she admitted to herself a certain level of irritation over the whole need to take time away from her work.

Aeryn stepped into the "Tank" to be greeted by casual activity, and no one seemingly in a hurry to do or go anywhere. Upon inquiry, she was told that their 'guest' had 'quieted down' once he knew she was coming.

Aeryn stopped before the 'Tank', eyed Stark with disapproval. He was crouched in a corner of the stainless steel and glass room, that 'furtive animal' stance he always took in full force. She sighed silently to herself, hit the intercom.

"Stark. I'm here." Waited.

Stark looked at her, but didn't react. He seemed agitated, but no more than usual.

"Stark, I'm _here_," she tried again. "What was so important?" Each word she spoke seemed to cause him to tremble more vigorously.

"Stark!" she raised her voice to get his attention, which snapped him around, to stare directly at her, as if noticing her for the first time.

"_He is coming_." He told her through the intercom, his agitation rising. "_He is coming_!"

"What? Who is coming?"

As if seeing horror and calamity in his mind's eye, Stark began to quake, and yell, which quickly became an agonized shriek.

"_He is coming_!"

At a tech station, someone hit a button and pink mist suddenly flooded the chamber. Stark reeled, staggered drunkenly and then collapsed.

"Sorry, Officer," a tech told her. "He goes into a complete frenzy and we don't want him to hurt himself."

"No, of course not," she said sourly, mind spinning around what he'd said. Once again, Stark's explanations were as clear as hydrohonium steel.

'_He is coming?' He, who? _Almost instantly she thought _Scorpius._ Surely no one else would or could work Stark into such a paroxysm of anxiety. Granted, now that he was unconscious – albeit with a smile on his face from the mist – she was unlikely to find out any time soon.

Her mind _did_ offer up another 'he', but her brain just as quickly skittered away from the suggestion. She did not, would not – _could not_ – go there. That other 'he' could not be responsible for such quaking fear now, could he?

She dismissed it almost as she thought it.

One frelling disaster at a time.

* * *

**"THAT WAS ALL? NO INDICATION AS TO JUST WHOM THIS 'HE' IS?"**

In the base's Comm-Ops room, Aeryn eyed the people around the table with a vague trepidation. Humans were dense at the best of times and those charged with overseeing it's politics or its secrets were often the most dense of all.

In charge, however, was a woman named Jocasta Akanke, Director of Dreamland Special Projects, which meant that there would be _some_ sense at the table. She knew as much as anyone did about Stark.

"No." Aeryn told her. She was not one for long explanations, never had been. She was even less so of late. She could see Akanke trying to assess her state of mind. Always probing, that one.

Akanke stood a moment, stretched as she walked a few steps away, got herself a cup of coffee, came back.

"Very well. Given what you know of Stark, to whom do you think he is referring?"

"I'd prefer not to speculate without facts." Aeryn replied dryly. "Stark is the definition of 'manic'. He could mean anything or anyone."

"That wasn't my question, Officer Sun."

Aeryn sighed silently, and crossed her arms.

"That state usually implies Scorpius." She told them, watching them blink and mutter. Yes, they'd been told about Scorpius.

"Are you saying that this Stark is somehow 'predicting' this Scorpius' approach to this planet?" Some general she couldn't identify, on a monitor on the wall behind Akanke.

"I wasn't implying anything." Aeryn told him, still looking at Akanke. "Stark is a Stykera – they have certain …abilities. Scorpius is on the other side of the wormhole – where we left him."

"You made it through the wormhole," Aeryn couldn't identify the woman – another government official – Secretary of Something-Or-Other. "Why couldn't this Scorpius person?"

"I suppose he could. But he'd have to know how, and he doesn't – or at least he didn't when we left," she conceded. "John is confident that he won't crack it on his own."

"Things change," Akanke said, frowning. "Can you think of any way Scorpius could acquire the knowledge?"

Aeryn's frown matched Akanke's. There were possibilities, of course. A breakthrough in his own research. Furlow. She'd stolen too much. If Scorpius had her… too likely. The other possibility her mind once again skittered away from – John had assured her that the encryption would not be broken by any methods Scorpius could employ. She assessed and rethought, and reassessed. She had suspicions, but no way to confirm anything.

"Scorpius is a genius – given the resources... if he is coming, this planet is great danger – and I need to get back to the Raptor and we need to get it operational as soon as possible." She stood, already tired of this, tired of the endless talk and no action.  
"Sit down, please, Officer Sun." Akanke said, the voices on screen and around her bent-head murmuring. "We need to discuss this."

"No, you don't," Aeryn told them, not sitting. "You need to _do something_. You need to act as if he _is_ coming and prepare." She turned. "If he is coming, it's for John, and Scorpius will do anything he thinks is necessary to get him." She started walking to the door.

"Aeryn…" Akanke asked. "What are your recommendations?"

Aeryn stopped, then kept walking.

"Hope for the best," she told Akanke, although she had long since doubted it'd help, herself.

* * *

**NERADA LAMM LOOKED OVER HER TEAM.** All in order. She would be piloting herself, and seated firmly into the pilot's seat of the enhanced Marauder, she trapped herself in.

All these resources for one man. One man's _knowledge_, she corrected herself. Some supposed superweapon that could stop the Scarrans cold. Well, if it could, she'd get it. If she had to wade through the blood and climb over the corpses of a million aliens to get it and him, she'd do that too. There was no idealism or patriotism involved, no great desire to stop Scarrans or elevate Sebaceans. She'd long since ceased caring about any of that dren.

Nerada Lamm wanted challenge _– needed_ challenge, needed the rush of living on the edge of life itself. Since birth, she'd sought some elusive thing that she could never quite grasp, but knew she needed. She supposed it had become an obsession, but she cared little. As long as she raced along the knife's edge, felt that exhilarating mix of fear/ecstasy, she would do whatever it took to get it. She'd killed lovers and friends and family for it. She could certainly kill Humans to achieve the same ends. She hoped they'd put up a good fight.

She finished her preflight, powered up, checked her troops. Twenty of Scorpius' guards as fodder for any human weapons, should it become necessary. Her team in their places and calm. All as it should be. The Captain of the Frigate that had brought her to this obscure asteroid field called down that they were in position.

With a deep breath, she took the controls and the Marauder rose and banked from the hanger smoothly.

She checked her stats board as the great black welcomed her. There was nothing to be seen but a few rocks in the distance. Sawer confirmed high energy readings from dead ahead, and Lamm shrugged internally and angled toward them. Scorpius assured her it was stable and could be traversed without worry. She didn't worry – as thrilling as it might have been to risk an unstable wormhole, she knew tests of her skill awaited her _in_ the wormhole, on Crichton's planet. She would feed the only desire she knew in life, and she would do whatever it took to sate it, to finally grab it and know intimately, once and for all.

Before her, as if from nowhere, the mouth of the blue colossus suddenly gaped, and with only a moment to savour, Lamm plunged the ship in, and held on.

* * *

**CRICHTON OPENED HIS EYES TO A WALL OF GREY… ICE?**

He was still in his suit, and the last thing he recalled was being grabbed by a giant fist and yanked powerfully down, _and_ across _and_ forward_, _and wondered why he hadn't been torn apart in the process. He concluded that it was more perceptual than actual.

His suit sensors were blank – operative, but registering… virtually _nothing_. Just the faintest traces of energy. Whatever this place was – and it _looked_ like an ice floe in a sea of ink – it was basically… inert.

Around him, hanging like a cathedral ceiling were… _wormholes_, open and slowly – very slowly - spinning. A wall of them – and for a moment he thought they might have been projections – and then abruptly realized that they _weren't_.

What the hell _was_ this place?

It took him a moment to register the figure before him, and he had a pistol in its face before he'd realized he'd done it. The figure was unperturbed. He looked vaguely like someone Crichton felt he might have known – save for the hollow features and black pits for eyes.

"_I'm gonna assume you brought me here_." Crichton told him in way of greeting, his suit comm sounding flat as if the air was too thin for the sound to move through. "_I'm also gonna assume you want something."_

"Time." He said in a strong monotone voice, like a pronouncement of doom.

Crichton just nodded at him. Whatever. He was stuck, so he'd play along. The pistol he put away. The figure looked at him and then intoned again.

"Time."

"_Time. Sorry – don't own a watch."_

"Time."

Crichton looked at him for a moment, shook his head slightly. _Gonna be a word game was it? _He really didn't have any of the time this guy was going on about.

"_Time. Yeah - and? What? If you ask ol' Steven, it's likely curved, along with the rest of the universe_." He paused as the figure seemed to contemplate him.

"Perhaps." The figure said. He didn't nod, yet he gave off the impression somehow that he just had.

"_Can I know where I am – or is it a secret?"_

"We are at a juncture between states. It is provided to allow this communication."

"_The reason being…?_

"The precipitation of events has arrived at a point where direct intervention has become necessary."

"_What? Johnny screwed up? Don't tell me you're surprised by this."_

"Crichton…" The Ancient began, but got cut off.

"_He's on Earth_."

He shook his head in his helmet. The Ancient seemed to blink without blinking.

"The knowledge has become a danger. Steps must needs be taken."

"_Look, Hawking – go whine at John – you guys unlocked his brain. I don't know squat about wormholes. I had no intention of using any, either_ - _until just recently._"

"This cannot be permitted to proceed."

"_You want John's head? Get in line_."

"No."

"_No? Listen – if Scorpius goes through that wormhole, more than the pooch'll get screwed. I need to stop him."_

"The knowledge cannot be disseminated."

"_No, really?_" Derisive. "_I think I've been pretty obvious in my agreement with that already_."

"There can be no copies. No dissemination."

_Shit. Here is comes._ The other shoe. Waste the copy, tie up everything neat for Johnny-boy.

"You have been brought here to precipitate its destruction. We will facilitate this - _now_."

Even as Crichton tried to protest, raise his pistol, do anything, 'Hawking' raised his hand and again there was a tremendous multidirectional 'yank' – and Crichton felt himself suddenly hurled… somewhere. The force of the acceleration – if that's what it was – caused him to black out momentarily. The first thing he felt was a feeling of weightlessness upon recovering his wits. His helmet had gone opaque against the sudden glare he'd experienced during the 'yank' and he ordered it to clear. As it did, he looked around, got his bearings.

The blackness of space.

The bright light, in the distance, of a star.

He turned himself around, and 'behind' him, full and blue-white and green and brown revolved a world he'd been certain he'd never see again.

Earth.

Crichton laughed, a short snort of surprise, shook his head. 'Precipitate his destruction', huh? Well, good job, Hawking – nicely done, and just vicious enough to be poetic.

He was in orbit, and his suit only had – tops - five hours of breathable O2 left in the recyclers. The nearest ship was somewhere on the other side of the wormhole.

His choices now were to either suffocate slowly or to pop the seals in his suit and suffocate quickly.

Crichton felt a laugh well up again, and he let it out – one that blended anger, despair, rage and irony all in an harsh barking outburst.

_It so frelling figured._

_

* * *

_

**NERADA LAMM** did her best to stop the Marauder from spinning, managed after a feverish few microts. The ride down the wormhole had been terrifyingly exciting, and she relished it. Before her, she saw a bright yellow sun and black space, but little else.

She zeroed in on the largest radio source and headed in-system, eventually coming to a blue-white planet and its silver cinder-moon. She pointed the Marauder at the moon. She did not blunder blindly anywhere. Peacekeepers knew nothing of this "Earth", and what information Scorpius had provided told her little of tactical value. She dropped the Marauder on a plain facing the planet and got Sawer to work stealing data from the local satellite net.

After several arns – the bad news. If Crichton was as vaunted as predicted, he was well hidden – scans could not track his movements with any fidelity. Yet… local media spoke, surprisingly - of the deserter _Aeryn Sun_ – and speculation of technologies being developed in secret. It was not a stretch to assume the humans were planning on advancing their spaceflight technologies and exploiting the wormhole. The information was down there, in Crichton's head, and she would do whatever was necessary to acquire it. He didn't even need to be alive for it, as long as his brain stayed intact.

She was in no hurry, nor a fool. He was obviously well protected, if he were hidden so well. Good. That meant a challenge, and she relished the idea of such a thing, the sheer complexity of acquiring this one man. They would gather as much information as they could – and then they'd strike.

* * *

**HE HAD FAILED. MISCALCULATED BADLY.**

Thadon cursed himself roundly for the chance, wondered how he could have made such a mistake. All indications had been that Shivi'na would be in contact with this group he'd joined, and all he had to do was play his role and wait.

No. His instincts had never failed him. Shivi'na _would_ come, and he would be waiting.

He looked over his companions and knew the time would also come when they would prove a greater liability. He made himself a silent vow.

_Woe to any that come between us. _Then, he recited his own personal litany, for the focus it permitted him:

_I am here in the now. I am powerful, yet I am no one; I am light and dark, fool and wise. I have been. I am. I go on. I will be._

One deep breath, a small smile, and Thadon nodded at an order that came his way, and proceeded to check his equipment, the moment of doubt a long forgotten memory.

* * *

**WORMHOLES, IT SHOULD BE NOTED, ARE STRANGE ENTITIES.**

On the surface, they are nothing more than quantum oddities, tubular ribbons of exotic energy, quirky electromagnetic anomalies that tunnel through the universe and refuse to obey the laws of 4D spacetime with any kind of fidelity. The majority of them are short-lived and not traversable by anything larger than an atom or two, and the energy required to open one and hold it open long enough for a ship to pass through is almost impossibly astronomical.

However, sometime in the past, when Earth itself was simply a moonless, hot lifeless ball being bombarded by the detritus of a young solar system, a race of beings discovered how to use the wormholes' _own_ inherent energy to both stabilize and open them at will. They discovered that they could live _inside _wormholes, at the nexus points where they met, but that would require radical changes to their physiology.

It was a small price to pay, for the abilities wormholes gifted. What they called themselves now is beyond the scope of anyone limited by a verbal language, but others who would discover their existence called them _Ancients_.

The Ancients, it must be said, even though they were among the oldest races in the Galaxy, commanded unimaginable power and technology, were not infallible. They'd made mistakes. It had not been a quick process to learn all the intricacies of their new creations and most impressive and dangerous tools. Eventually they mastered them, and in their mastery discovered just how elegant and _simple_ – relatively – the rules binding wormholes and their use actually were, how once understood, wormholes had _one_ real use.

They granted users access to… well, practically _anything_.

It was _not_ wonder that drove the Ancients to understand wormholes, it must be said. Once they understood that simple law, they nearly destroyed themselves with _fear_. It took a long time, and nearly exterminated them as a race on several occasions, but they learned the lessons, and they learned them well. They were prepared to destroy whole civilizations to protect the secrets of wormholes. Schisms developed over such views and sects of Ancients split over the millennia - most were hunted into oblivion. Only very few sects escaped the purges, and then only because the Ancients were approaching the twilight of their species.

The Ancients developed a series of simple rules for the employ of wormholes, and they went something, roughly, like this:

_Wormholes are not doors, windows or highways. They are mirrors that reflect themselves._

_One wormhole is all wormholes. Although not all wormholes everywhere._

_What traverses space, traverses time._

_To master a wormhole is to become a god._

_All gods must immediately be destroyed._

The Ancients had lived by this creed for many millennia, until a serious mistake was made (_there was some argument about it actually being a mistake, but that is a question for another time_) an alien was – _long_ before his species was ready – exposed to one.

It was the standard method – it looked like an accident, but wasn't, of course. Plucked the alien from an atmospheric flight, scanned and ran the data.

It was a tempting prospect. The planet would benefit immensely from Ancient technology and culture, and the near-planet-wide oceans offered an inviting home.

Arguments flew, and the consensus was finally, no, it wouldn't work, the aliens were too hostile, paranoid, religious and ignorant to wield the knowledge with any sense.

As the alien's planetary system was just outside the terminus of a stable wormhole, and the consensus among the remaining Ancient hierarchy was that the planet be destroyed.

They were simply too violently ignorantly primitive, and they should never have been contacted.

Of course, by then it was too late. The Ancients who had re-engineered themselves to exist on the level they once had – the Caretakers, they were called (_to watch and record and recruit and if necessary, obliterate_) – sent a representative to test the contactee, perhaps there was _some_ hope.

They needed to take chances.

The Ancients, you must understand, were _dying_.

They needed _heirs_.

Sometimes, however, when you`ve been around as long as the Ancients, you can, understandably, forget things.

Sometimes very important things.

Like love.

Like hope.

And what happens when both are lost.

* * *

**THEY CALLED IT THE "ORBITAL BASE SATELLITE ENERGY RESONANCE VECTOR".**

That was the military term for the covert telescope in Earth orbit pointed outward, but not at the stars. More prosaically, they called it OBSERV, and it basically did one thing: it watched 'Earth's' wormhole.

Jocasta Akanke checked the incoming data and then checked it again. OBSERV was controlled from her command, and although the wormhole was public knowledge, that didn't change the covert nature of their observations. IASA watched the area, but their satellites and telescopes were not even remotely as sophisticated as OBSERV.

She was on her third cup of coffee, glanced at the big clock on the wall, watching the big hand slowly head toward five PM. She was sitting at a large conference table, at which she was the only one physically present. The room was surrounded by monitors.

On the largest of the screens before her, General Jeremiah Tecumseh "Tuck" Williams scowled at the reports in his hands. Williams was a veteran of the Black Ops game. He was one of only five people on Earth who knew _exactly_ what it was that had _really_ crashed in Roswell, New Mexico in 1947, and where it was at this very moment. It was _not _what most people supposed, it was altogether different, but still as world-changing.

Williams was amiable, knowledgeable and quite personable when he wished to be. He had movie-star looks and salt-and-pepper hair. "Tuck" had flown in those early days with Jack Crichton, and they were old friends and rivals.

He was also the overall head of a little known division of the Tactical Air Command – **A.S.S.E.T.S.** – **A**merican **S**pace and **S**pecial **E**ngineering **T**actical **S**upport. The command annex for it, Groom Lake, where most thought it located, was simply what it appeared to be, the testbed for experimental aircraft. Occasionally, they still flew a few planes there, just to keep the UFO buffs happy – and diverted. He did not 'officially' command Groom Lake, although he technically out-ranked Akanke. He respected her mind, and if the truth be told, feared her a little. Extremely intelligent people always intimidated him. She was essential to his process. He did not, if he could help it, either step on her toes or pull rank. She did not know everything he knew, but she yet knew more.

"_Was anything observed, Director_?" Williams asked from the screen. Akanke shook her head wearily.

"No, General. The wormhole opened and closed twice." Akanke told him, stifling a yawn. "IASA reported it this afternoon. OBSERV reports it opening and closing, but nothing exited that it could detect. However, there has been a great deal of magnetic interference in its vicinity lately, and its observations are not as clear as they should be."

"_What's the interference_?"

"Tests of the pulse cannon, sir. Part of the 'missile defence shield'."

"_Oh, that stupid thing. They should know better_."

"_Sky Watch reported on the openings as well._" Donovan Atkins, Administrator of the Media and Information Control Annex – the real "Men In Black" - stated from a screen beside Williams. His security clearance was only two points below Akanke's, which in practice meant that he would be told a secret, but not right away, and not everything. "_NORAD says something came through, but all our sensor platforms counter that assertion. They say they're using something called VDT and they saw something._"

_"Is that that new Volumetric Displacement Tracking grid of theirs? Supposedly to track 'cloaked' ships or some nonsense?"_ Abigail Delaney-Ronson, Deputy Secretary of the NSA.

"It's a viable science. Another spin-off of Crichton's efforts. Something invisible or shielded from standard surveillance is still there. It has mass, it displaces air, it bends light fractionally. If these Peacekeeper former comrades of Officer Sun _do_ have cloaking technology, it would be the perfect way to track them." She replied, fatigue stealing over her. She covered a yawn.

"_NORAD is just showing off – and trying to justify the expense. What was it – three-quarters of a billion to set up? Advanced technology to track technology that may or may not exist. There were no tracking reports of any object from IASA – and they have access to our own Sentinel Systems._"

Akanke nodded. "I've seen the reports, of course. They only just arrived, Secretary. Initial reports and mass analysis _suggest_ an object, but I agree, Sky Watch cannot say with any certainty. It's too ambiguous for my tastes."

"_Did NORAD track a second object? The wormhole did open twice." _Williams asked, referring to orbital systems.

"No, sir. All the Sentinels with that capability that could have been used are all currently over the Middle East." Akanke told him. Williams scowled. Right. 'Operation Iraqi Hunt something-or-other'.

"_I'll have as many of them as possible deployed back to us,"_ Williams told her. "_Was there any subsequent track on this supposed object?_"

"According to this," She held up a sheaf of documents. "VDT Deep Sky Seven tracked, for seven minutes, an object that had either come through or been ejected by the wormhole," Akanke said. "It attempted to follow the object but the track was lost when the satellite orbited out of range, and thus cannot be confirmed at this time. If it was an object it was relatively small – certainly no 'alien battle cruiser'."

"_But for seven minutes? That would seem to be rather definite, Director." _Ronson stated, rather dourly.

Akanke nodded.

"Secretary, I would love to be able to send a ship up to verify, but they _are _rather spare at the moment. There is a shuttle launch in a few hours. We could surreptitiously place one of our automated sensor platforms on it before it goes up, but it'll have to be quick." Williams nodded.

"_I'll see to that. I think we'll have to..."_

Delaney-Ronson interrupted._ "I want to be informed the instant…."_

"I'm sorry, Secretary. But after Roswell and Arizona…" Akanke explained, not needing to elaborate on the headache that both continued to be. "Well, we don't take chances. There's far too much paranoia out there – people are already jumpy about 'terror this and terror that'. Throw supposed alien infiltration and/or battlefleets into the mix and watch two-thirds of the country go stark-raving."

"_I think you're exaggerating_." The Secretary said dryly.

"Ma'am, more people in America believe _Oprah_ more credible opinion-wise than an accredited scientist with fifty years of data to back him up."

"_Point taken_," the Secretary nodded.

Atkins asked, "_Are there parallels to the Arizona Anomaly?"_

The "Arizona Anomaly" was used to describe the arrival of John Crichton and Aeryn Sun.

"It's too early to speculate, sorry." Akanke had to tell them. "Until we can confirm that momentary track – and even if it _was _observed for seven minutes, my concern would be where precisely it _went._" She shrugged. "As far as we can tell, the object was in Earth orbit and now is not. If it were debris, a meteor, which isn't impossible, then it's of no concern. If it is _not_, it needs to be found. That may be the equivalent of a microscopic needle in a planet-sized haystack, however." Williams scowled, not liking the idea as it would divert already stretched resources, and Delaney-Ronson and Atkins finally agreed, nodded, signed off, after extracting a promise from Akanke to keep them updated.

Williams waited until Akanke nodded at him.

"_Your thoughts, Jocasta?_" He asked Akanke, noting the fatigue in her eyes.

"I'd really rather not speculate, General."

"_How much of that object track were you actually able to follow?"_

"Something came through. That's definite, but we don't know what. NORAD has confirmed via VDT that it was an object, size indeterminate, but large. It could be anything – a ship, a probe – a rare mineral composite rock."

"_An invisible rock._"

"Well, a very shiny crystalline one. Sometimes, to sensors, they can look the same. "

"_I see._ _Any further developments of which I should be aware?"_

"Officer Sun is on her way back to Serendipity." Akanke yawned again.

"_I had wanted to speak to her, Director_."

"I know, General. She, however, felt it important to return immediately."

"_Do you think it is as serious as she paints?_"

"We certainly shouldn't discount what she says. In my professional opinion, I believe we should act as if it's entirely possible, if not imminent."

"_I'll take it under advisement." _He sounded distracted. "_There's a helluva lot to coordinate if we have to active the Protocols."_

He thought, read more on his tablet. Akanke felt her eyelids start to creep closed. She'd been awake for a long time.

"_I should have at least one more of the Sentinel satellites available to you by tomorrow morning. With any luck, it'll be one of the armed ones. Have the supercomputer there analyze all the data. You know the drill. If this _is_ the precursor to anything, we'll _have _to activate first phase Protocols. I'd rather not, but if such caution is warranted…"_

Akanke blinked.

"I agree, certainly, General, but there's nothing to say they _are_ here. It's all too vague. There is no real evidence."

"_We'll see." _He frowned._ "Not everything crashes in downtowns. If I wanted to watch someone – despite the UFO buff claims to the contrary, I'd invest in cloaking technology. I want people dispatched to Serendipity. We should be able to provide a few 'extra technicians' to help things along."_

"Sir, we will reap as many, if not more, benefits from this technology. Simply because there's UN oversight…" Akanke sighed. The old argument. _For Christ's sake, how many wars do we need to be in?_

"_I understand Crichton's desire to have things open, but it's the wrong move and has always been. We should have direct control over any technology he develops. You know this better than anyone - it's just prudent in the current political climate."_

"Yes, sir." She replied, feeling heavy from the insistence of sleep, tired of the nonsense of the paranoid military mindset. She could feel Williams looking at her intently, looked back up at him.

"_Do you really believe we should be that concerned?_"

Akanke eyed him for a moment.

"Obliquely, sir, but yes."

Williams thought about it – or appeared to think about it, nodded, Akanke just looking at him.

"_I'll want updates on anything significant." _He pursed his lips, thought another moment. "_I don't like that object appearing out of nowhere. Not coming out of the wormhole. Do you follow me? What about that track earlier in the Pacific?_"

_"_Lost, whatever it was. We could never get a decent lock. IASA is insisting on dismissing it as a meteor that broke up over the ocean_._ I tend to concur._" _He considered it for a full minute before replying.

_"Lots of meteors this week."_ He said dryly. "_Very well. Begin the preparatory work-up to activate first phase Crichton Protocols."_

"Shouldn't we wait until we have more reliable data?"

"_It's just the preparations, Director._"

Akanke simply nodded, not caring to argue. She was far too tired. Williams looked Akanke over.

"_You should get some sleep. Delegate someone to watch this in your absence_."

Akanke just nodded again.

"Yes, sir."

Williams popped a stick of chewing gum into his mouth. It was a indulgence he could never shake.

"_I'm heading back to Cheyenne Mountain. Depending on how the next 24 hours go, I may be there or I may head to SE3, based on circumstances. 'Request' Crichton's return from Australia. I want him where we have easy access to him. If this is a precursor to something larger, we may have our work cut out for us._"

"Of course, sir."

Williams signed off, and the screen went blank. If it _were_ the precursor to 'something larger', it could quickly become serious. Deadlyserious. _World-changing _serious. The _Crichton Protocols_ dealt with nothing less than the invasion of Earth by extraterrestrials. It had been discussed. Aeryn Sun had laid out the capabilities of her people, and more than clearly delineated their priorities and ruthlessness. Advanced supercomputers had crunched the numbers.

The Protocols had three phases. Williams had simply told her to begin the preliminaries – a lead up, a sort of warning to those who needed to know that at some point in the future, the First Phase might be activated. One had to love the military mindset.

Nothing need actually be done by anyone other than SE3 at this point. It seemed strange on the surface, but it was meant to prevent anyone from overreacting until all the evidence was in.

The _full_ First Phase put Area 51 and every Air Force base in the United States on provisional alert, pending direct confirmation and severity of the possible threat. IASA would also be informed and asked to confirm all satellite initial readings. Only those with sufficient clearance would be informed. Standard project pseudonyms would be used to misdirect. If the threat were considered serious, Second Phase would be activated. John Crichton would be moved – by force if necessary – to Cheyenne Mountain and a facility that awaited him deep underground. He didn't know it, but Crichton would be in what basically amounted to a vault, deep underground, below Cheyenne Mountain.

It was also his pyre, and tomb.

If necessary.

Second Phase was the informing and putting on alert of the White House, Congress, the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and the Strategic and Tactical Air Command in Cheyenne Mountain, as well as the informing of NATO allies and the Security Council of the UN.

Third Phase was full deployment, all American forces currently engaged anywhere in the world would be put on alert, all other governments on the planet – through secret treaties - informed, and a general announcement made to the public. The nuclear arsenal of the planet would also be put on alert and pointed at the sky. Satellite defences, such as they were, would be redeployed.

By then, it was expected, Earth would officially be at _war_ - and John Crichton's knowledge could not be allowed to fall into the hands of the enemy.

Akanke mused as she walked out the door – projections for such a war were not optimistic, given what they were told by Sun and the supercomputers – Earth could hold out for two days, _perhaps_ - before complete and total defeat. There was no other outcome. Utter subjection was as inevitable as the sun rising in the morning.

The _entire_ American armed might, arguably the most sophisticated on Earth, would last, in the best case scenario, _if_ it could be fully deployed and all other current theatres of engagement disregarded – _including_ the optioning of nuclear and satellite defences – would last a grand total of two hours and thirty-two minutes.

_If_ the entire planetary military – _all_ armies and fleets and airforces and nukes could be deployed from _every_ nation on Earth, the planet would last approximately three days, seven hours and twenty-one minutes – depending, of course, if the Peacekeepers decided to fight on the ground and not simply bombard the planet from orbit.

In _that_ case, Earth forces would last approximately 62 minutes and fifteen seconds – the time it would take for _one _Command Carrier to orbit the Earth, identify, target and then destroy all major capitals. According to Sun, Peacekeepers had _hundreds upon hundreds_ of Carriers. It was a big Galaxy.

The computers' recommendation: immediate surrender to avoid undue casualties, which it estimated as _total _in all engagements.

She shook her head. Futile.

She went to her office and sat down on her couch. They'd activate Phase Three, she thought again, then defeat and ruin in slightly more than an hour. All for something only one man had – the key to that damn wormhole out there.

Akanke sighed, hating the thing even while wishing she could see it herself, curled up on her couch and fell promptly asleep.

* * *

**John Crichton paused** on the steps of his private plane and looked to the cloudless black sky over a rather secret base in the middle of Australia's Woomera Prohibited Area. The stars were many and pinpoint-sharp. A shooting star darted by.

He couldn't have said why he looked up, and a second later, he was stepping onboard and ordering his pilot to return him to North America, having forgotten he'd done it at all. John's plane was equipped with his back-engineered technology. He'd be in Serendipity in two hours. The plane would take a parabolic course that would put him in orbit briefly, let the Earth rotate below him and then return him to Earth.

He had a great deal of work to do. Preliminaries of the Protocols activated? John felt a trill of fear race up his spine. _It was too soon! He wasn't ready yet!_ He needed more time for his plan to come to fruition – his _real_ plan. Everything he was doing now was incidental, although he certainly meant to leave his planet better than how he'd returned to it.

It figured. He had to go faster now, had to work harder. Had to be ready.

He watched the clouds race by, smiled grimly to himself. His government, his world – even Aeryn herself, had no idea as to his true intentions for this new ship they were building, or the special project he'd had DK overseeing back there is Australia, away from prying eyes. They all thought it some exotic weapon – another bone to the American government. It wasn't for them. It wasn't for anyone.

Not now.

Not yet.

Someday.

When Humanity grew up a bit more. Then, perhaps.

His smile widened slightly. No, it wasn't a weapon.

Not …exactly.

Not exactly a weapon, but in the right hands, it most definitely could be.

* * *

**"ALL PROBES AND TELEMETRY FROM LAMM'S FLIGHT SHOW THE WORMHOLE IS STABLE, SIR."**

"Excellent, Braca." Scorpius smile in satisfaction. Another day, perhaps two. The repeater was only two-thirds finished, but the teams would simply have to work harder. Success was too close to hand.

"The instant the teams are done, Braca. We go. Do you understand? The _instant_."

"Understood, sir." Braca nodded to him. "I'll have them redouble their efforts."

"Yes. There's no time to waste." Scorpius watched the display of chaotic energy on the screen. Indescribable amounts of energy were tearing spacetime apart, knitting it back together, only to shred it again. To master that power… Scorpius shook his head. Power was simply a means to an end. Power for its own sake was power turned to no purpose, and Scorpius had purpose aplenty. No time to waste indeed.

No time at all.

**_NEXT TIME ON _**

**_FARSCAPE - FREEBOOTER:_**

**EARTHFALL, PT 1:**

**WHEREVER YOU GO, THERE YOU ARE**


End file.
